


Winter Friends

by Shadowcatxx



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Family, Gay Sex, History, M/M, Marriage, Politics, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-01-30 03:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12644904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/pseuds/Shadowcatxx
Summary: The Old Days are gone and they're not coming back. Denmark needs to accept it. Sweden needs to acknowledge it. And Norway & Finland need to take advantage of it. It's the 19th Century: Norway has been given to Sweden; Finland has been taken by Russia; and Denmark is all alone for the first time in a long, long time. This story is about love, lust, and loss, and what the Nordics will have to do to survive (endure) the next 200 years—together and apart.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse my taking liberties with some character relationships and the chronology of historic events, as well as my personal—fictional—interpretation. (I really can't stress enough how much I've manipulated historic events to fit my purpose.) All countries will be called by their present-day names rather than their historic names to avoid confusion. In this story, Denmark and Norway call each other by their native-language names: Danmark (Dan) and Norge.

" _From the fury of the Northmen, Good Lord, deliver us._ "

 

**DENMARK**

**SEPTEMBER 1814**

 I told him not to do it. I _warned_ him not to invade Russia in September, but did he listen? No. Fucking Napoleon.

                Fucking France.

                I'm standing at the bow of my flagship, a fierce autumn wind tugging at my blood-red cloak. France says that too much red is gaudy, but what does France know? Fuck France. I like red. I'm wearing my armour, but it's still shiny; untarnished. I haven't participated in any hand-to-hand combat yet, which is a shame. I'm really good at hand-to-hand combat. Give me a sword and I'll give you a real show. Prussia and I used to spar (and fight) a lot in the days before guns. We were— _are—_ good, but that's not how battles are fought anymore. My navy is strong today, but there's something about crushing a rival's windpipe with my bare hands—God! I miss the Old Days! I think Norge does, too. I look sideways at him, my partner, standing at the bow of his ship, side-by-side with mine. His ship is a masterpiece of naval engineering, but it's old and weathered. So are his clothes. They're threadbare and sun-bleached; durable, but outdated. There's nothing fashionable or luxurious about Norge, no adornment except for a gold hairpin. (I gave it to him long ago as a wedding gift.) Norge is poor and it shows. The wealth he had acquired in the Old Days has long been lost, spent, stolen. It's why I've taken over the care of his colonies, because Norge can barely afford to feed himself now. But he never complains. He never protests or rebels (much) or petitions my monarchy for more. He carries on like he always has: quiet, stoic, mysterious, dignified. He has an incomparable survival instinct that I've always found desirable. He might lack the wealth and refinery of mainland Europe, but in my whole life I've never seen anything in the world more beautiful than Norge.

                Norge's violet eyes are surveying the French Army. I turn to look, too.

                Saying that Russia has defeated Napoleon's army is a huge understatement. Russia's harsh climate, that is. His strategy was brutal, cruel even, but necessary. I'd spotted it. Norge had spotted it. France had not spotted it. He had chased the Russian Army farther and farther north, all the way up to Moscow, too arrogant to consider Russia's retreat as a tactical strategy; too ignorant of winter. Norge and I had watched as France, our _ally_ , marched Napoleon's army too far to retreat from the blistering cold.

                "It's only September," France had said, baffled.

                "Winter comes early in the north," Norge told him. But did he listen? No.

                _Poor bastards_ , I think as I watch the French Army retreat. The soldiers are shivering from head-to-toe. Most of them have frostbite; some have even lost appendages to it. All of them are starving. None of them ride horses. The cavalry has inadvertently sacrificed the beasts to the climate and starvation. They have no overcoats, no protection, no supplies, no food, and Russia is making sure they stay that way. France had arrived in Moscow only to find it burnt to the ground. The Russians had intentionally torched their own city— _crazy bastards_ —and then retreated deep into the interior, destroying fields and shelters, leaving the French with no protection from the oncoming winter. France had entered Russia with 500,000 troops; he's leaving it now with less than 100,000. And he's barely even engaged Russia in combat. He had marched Napoleon's army across the continent, defeating friend and foe alike, anyone who dared to oppose him. He had even forced powerhouses like Prussia and Austria to their knees, but you can't make nature bow. France learnt that the hard way.

                I told him not to do it.

                I warned him not to do it.

                But did he listen to me? No.

                "There's a reason only north-borns fight winter battles," I say to Norge.

                I don't expect a reply, and Norge doesn't give me one. He doesn't usually talk unnecessarily (not unless he's drunk), so I'm surprised when he says "Dan" really quietly. "If Napoleon is defeated..."

                I look at Norge, who's looking northward—at Sweden's country. I hear the doubt in his voice. I see the fear in his pretty eyes. I want to jump aboard his flagship and pull him into my arms and envelope him in my protection, but I don't. I can't, not here. Here we're both leaders, both personifications of everything that our flags represent. It's our job to inspire hope and pride and strength in our people, not show fear or weakness. Here we have to behave like the great nations we are instead of the married couple I want to be. I can't lend my partner comfort to ease his fears, and it irks me. It's why I fucking hate military campaigns, now. It's the reason I haven't participated in one for so long.

                The truth is, I'm tired of fighting other people's battles. I'm tired of taking sides and hoping the victor throws me his scraps when he's done. I just don't fucking care anymore. All I want to do is return home to the Kingdom of Denmark and Norway with my partner, hug my stepsons, eat something hearty and fattening, and then fall asleep in front of the crackling fire with Norge in my arms (satisfied and exhausted from fucking him). Let winter howl, I don't care. I've weathered a lot worse than this. As long as my family is safe, Europe can tear itself apart.

                I smile at Norge, trying to convey my feelings; trying to hide my doubt and remind him that it doesn't matter who wins or loses this conflict, because we'll survive like we've always done. We'll be who we've always been. I smile, trying to remind him who we are together.

                _It's okay_ , I nod at him. _It's going to be okay. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to us. You don't have to be afraid_ , _Norge_. _I'm here._

But Norge doesn't smile back.

* * *

**SWEDEN**

**JUNE 1815**

**CONGRESS OF VIENNA**

Did you want me that badly, France?"

                I stop at the threshold. It's better not to intrude on a private exchange between England and France if it can be helped. As neither of them have noticed me yet, I decide not to interrupt. Instead I stand in the entrance, awaiting England. As commander-in-chief of the coalition that had finally defeated Napoleon at Waterloo, England is needed to decide the future of France. He'll be France's chief persecutor in the months to come. He knows it. And he loves it. _He's cruel_ , I think, but France and England have an intimate history. It's always been this way with them, and I don't care enough about either of them to get involved. I had thought, perhaps, that England had come down to the prison to discuss the disarmament of France with the defeated nation, but the hushed conversation between them does not seem to involve matters of governance.

                "I like you on your knees," England says, smiling down at France. (No, not smiling—grinning.) "It suits you."

                France doesn't reply.

                "Tell me," England continues, unperturbed. He coils his index-finger teasingly around France's blonde curl as he speaks; France doesn't flinch. "Did you really think that pathetic blockade of yours would cripple me? Did you think you could conquer me if you isolated me from Europe? Oh, poppet." He laughs and leans in. "I _live_ in fucking isolation from you squabbling Continentals, and I fucking prefer it that way. Did you really think I wouldn't use Spain and Portugal to my advantage? Did you really think I wouldn't bleed them dry to save myself? Did you really think my colonies—my children—wouldn't provide for me?

                "I suppose I have you to thank for America's little tantrum in North America?" he says, straightening. His ire is notable as he begins to circle France like a bird-of-prey. "It wasn't a bad tactic, I'll admit. I was even afraid I'd have to send re-enforcements to Canada to expel America's invasion. That was your hope, wasn't it? You wanted to distract me from the conflict here in Europe, but it failed. The Anglo-American War—no, the War of 1812, that's what the wee colonies are calling it. Cute, isn't it?" He chuckles and smiles—genuinely? "But I'm curious," he continues. "What _did_ you tell impulsive little America that provoked him to attack my Canada? How did you convince my darling _former-colony_ "—he spats, smile gone—"to invade his own brother?"

                "I told him," says France quietly; his voice is raw and thirsty, "that he needed to rescue Canada from _you_. If anyone is the champion of freedom and liberty, it's America. And you're such an easy antagonist, England. America is still drunk on his Independence. He thinks he knows what's best for everyone. He thinks he needs to save the whole world. I simply told him to start with his dear brother and save Canada from your tyranny."

                England stops. He stiffens. He doesn't like the accusation that he might be a bad parent. He glares down at France, and says: "Do you really have the gall to call me a tyrant after what your Napoleon has done?"

                France shakes his head. Not in denial or regret, but in reluctant defeat. "You— _everyone_ —has stolen from me. I was only taking back what should be mine."

                "Well," says England coldly, matter-of-fact, "you failed. You and America both underestimated my Canada's strength. And his loyalty. You underestimated _me_ , France, which is something I warned you never to do. _France_ ," he repeats softly. He takes France's chin in his hand and raises it, almost tenderly, so they're staring at each other eye-to-eye, nearly lips-to-lips. The Englishman leans down, as if he's going to kiss France, but his words are cruel.

                " _You lost_ ," he whispers maliciously. " _And I won._ "

                France spits on him.

                England licks it off and grins. His green eyes sparkle.

                I finally decide to interrupt. I clear my throat loudly.

                England's gaze swivels and pierces me and for a moment he looks furious, but he controls his expression and straightens as if he's only been talking to France. As if that's all he ever intended. His human—and geographic—body is not big, but a ferocity lives in those mad green eyes, which puts me on-guard even though he's my ally today. I wait for him to leave France's side and approach me. I look down at him. He looks up, unafraid.

                "Yes, Sweden?" he asks.

                "I fought beside you, England," I say. "I helped you win victory at Waterloo. I want what you promised me after the Battle of Leipzig."

                England's contemplative pause is convincing enough for me to feel briefly jarred, cheated. In that moment, I don't trust him. (I never trust him. I wonder if anyone does?) Finally he nods at me.

                "Yes, of course," he says, chipper. "Shall we?"

                He doesn't wait for me to reply and he doesn't excuse himself, as is polite. He doesn't need to. He's in control today and he knows it.

                He doesn't look back at France.

* * *

**DENMARK**

**14 JANUARY 1814**

**KIEL**

Don't fuss," warns Prussia.

                I _may_ reply nonverbally with a rude hand gesture, and Prussia _may_ reciprocate. (He's one of my closest blood-relatives and—usually—we get on well, but he's never completely forgiven me for bullying Germany as a babe.)

                I sit down heavily on a bare, un-cushioned bench in the chamber, growling in annoyance. The noise startles Austria, who casts a disgruntled look my way. Posh prick. It's satisfying, though. So is the wide berth that most of the congress attendees give me. Even though I represent the losing side of the war and am wearing iron manacles, Europe remains wary of me. It's my reputation. Good. I sit back, cross my arms, and kick my boots over the bench in front of me. I scan the chamber for Norge, but I don't see him. It makes me nervous not knowing where he is, especially since our surrender, but just then England enters the room and it grabs my attention. He's being followed by Sweden, like a prince and his bodyguard.

                _When did they become such good friends_?

                I narrow my eyes into a glare I hope will discourage Sweden from making demands of us (or set him ablaze; I'm not picky). Sweden— _the bastard_ —completely ignores me.

                _I can't believe I ever called you brother_ , I think angrily; bitterly.

                England steps up to the podium and begins giving an impassioned speech about tyranny, betrayal, treason, injustice; France this and France that, blah, blah, blah. France. France. France. God, I wish the two of them would just fuck (again) and get it over with (again). I stop listening—and I'm not the only one—until I hear:

                "Norway."

                My eyes snap open. I've missed something. Everyone is looking at me now, but I don't know why. Sweden is standing at the podium, staring at me expectantly. I blink, kick my legs down and sit straighter. I don't like the way he's looking at me, like he pities me. _Bastard._ I don't like the way anyone is looking at me, some in smug satisfaction, but most in sympathy. Hungary is looking at me like I deserve a fucking hug. But why? _Why_? _What have you done_ , _Sweden_? I feel anxious as I glance from face-to-face, trying to decipher what it is they want from me; trying to look nonchalant and not like my heart is pounding in my chest.

                Impatiently, England says: "If there are no protests, then let the Kingdom of Denmark and Norway hereby be dissolved. Norway will legally become a lesser partner of Sweden, thereby—"

                "WHAT?"

                I leap up. I lose my fucking mind. I yell: "No! I protest! I fucking protest!"

                England— _fucking bastard_ —ignores me. "If there are no objections from any of the _victorious_ powers," he emphasizes, "then let this business be completed. Bring in Norway."

                "No!" I holler. "No, you can't do this! You can't! Norway belongs to me! He's my partner! It's been fucking sanctified! It's fucking legal! You can't just take him from me! Sweden, you bastard, _you_ _can't do this_!"

                I try to lunge at Sweden, I want to tear him apart, but Prussia and Germany hold me back. I hate them. I lash out at them as I fight and growl and spit and curse, making a spectacle of myself as chains jangle and benches flip, but I don't care. My heart is pounding. I'm fucking panicking. I can't even think straight. I'm acting on impulse, on blind, beastly instinct. I barely know what I'm doing, but I know—I _know_ —I can't let them take Norge from me. I know I have to protect him from Sweden—from everyone. I have to put a stop to this.

                " _Sweden_!" I snarl. "I'll fucking fight you!" I challenge.

                Sweden's voice is infuriatingly calm when he says: "You did, Denmark. And you lost. Norway needs someone who can protect him and provide for him. He needs someone who can take care of him. He needs strength, which I have. I can nurture his potential."

                "So can I!" I argue.

                "No, you can't. You've been married to Norway for centuries, and you've done nothing but tax him dry. While other nations have flourished in this modern era, you've let Norway succumb to poverty."

                "No... that's not true..." I shake my head. "I never..."

                "Norway used to be a great nation," says Sweden mercilessly, "then he married _you_."

                " _Shut up_!" I yell, throwing myself recklessly at him. Prussia and Germany hold me back. It's a kindness. They know if they let me go I'll try to kill Sweden, and then what will happen to me? But I still hate them for it.

                Then the door opens and Norge walks in and I freeze. I go completely still. Even though he's being ushered in by jailors; even though his wrists are manacled; even though his clothes are threadbare and his face is bruised, he looks regal, like he's proceeding an entourage. He's so fucking dignified, so beautiful. His pace is swift and graceful. He keeps his chin raised and his eyes hooded. He looks as characteristically expressionless as always, but I can see tension in his posture. I can see fear in his eyes, and it hurts me. He doesn't look at me as he passes, but he betrays acknowledgement in the way his lips tightened. So soft, those lips. He swallows. I can see that he's been stripped of all his symbols, all his power. Anything suggestive of our unified kingdom has been removed—even his hairpin. I wonder where it went. It's stupid, but I want that piece of gold jewelry back. I want it back for him. Norge stops in front of the podium and he doesn't look frightened. Not on the outside. He looks coldly up at England.

                "Norway," he says authoritatively, "the Kingdom of Denmark and Norway has officially been dissolved."

                I thought Norge would react, I really did. But he doesn't. Not obviously, anyway. He sucks in his breath and holds it for a minute, and I don't think anyone notices but me.

                "The Kingdom of Norway has been ceded to Sweden," England continues. He sounds bored. "You are hereby ordered to wed Sweden and become the lesser partner of the Kingdom of Sweden and Norway. You will abide by Swedish law and live in Sweden's house. Do you understand these terms?"

                Norge's voice is quiet, but sharp as ice. "Yes."

                "Good." England waves his hand in absent dismissal. "Sweden, you have the support and permission of the congress to take Norway away."

                I watch, helpless, as my rival extends his hand to my partner, my Norge.

                Norge hesitates. He doesn't take it. Instead, he addresses England: "May I say goodbye to my colonies?"

                England glances at Sweden. Sweden nods.

                Norge turns on his heel and strides swiftly from the chamber, chains jangling. He doesn't even look at me.

* * *

**NORWAY**

I leave the chamber as quickly as possible without looking like I'm running. I don't want anyone to see me cry. I don't want Dan to see me cry.

                I'm escorted to a bedchamber, where my colonies are being kept. I've never agreed with bringing colonies to _peace_ conferences; colonies—children—should never be traded as spoils. At least mine are staying with Dan. At least they haven't been auctioned off like commodities. No one thinks my colonies are commodities. No one thinks they're worth anything, and for the first time I'm grateful for that.

                I press my lips tightly together to stifle the messy emotion boiling like a geyser inside of me. I don't want my colonies to see me cry either.

                I close my eyes and feel instantly dizzy. I feel unstable. I think I'm in shock. I can't believe what's happening.

                My marriage to Dan has been dissolved?

                I'm being forced to marry Sweden?

                The manacles on my wrists jangle as the jailors relieve me of them. Only then do I realize that I'm trembling.

                I enter the small bedchamber and I see them, my colonies: my three beautiful colonies asleep in a bed that is not theirs. Theirs is at home in Copenhagen. Faroe is lying on his back in the middle, Iceland to the right, Greenland to the left. Despite being blood-relatives, none of the cold-climate islands looked anything alike. Faroe is silvery, stoic. Greenland is dark, wild. Iceland is the only one who looks like me ( _uncannily like you_ , Dan says). Iceland and Canada are the only colonies who have inherited my eyes, which shine with the lights of the Aurora Borealis. How long will it be before I see Iceland's shining lights again? How long will Sweden keep me for? Looking down at my three colonies, the only colonies I have left, I feel tears blur the edges of my vision, and I know then I can't do it. I can't wake them up to say goodbye.

                Instead, I sit on the bed by Iceland's side and I sing them a lullaby.

                I brush my fingers gently over their sweet faces, tracing the lines I memorized long ago: Faroe's long, silver eyelashes; Iceland's smooth, rosy cheeks; Greenland's shapely, petal-soft lips. All of them have a different colour hair, all different lengths, but it has the same texture, soft as fine silk ( _just like yours_ , _Norge_ , Dan says). As I sing, I drag my hand over their blanketed bodies, so small; so slight and skinny, with fragile little fingers I know the feeling of so well. They used to grab at me as their squeaky voices cried for attention: cold, hungry, sick, scared, lonely. So lonely. They cried so often for love and affection, and so often I failed them.

                _I'm sorry_ , I think now, touching those tiny fingers I love so much. _I'm sorry I wasn't a better parent to you_.

I was so very young when they were born, a teenager in human-years. If I had had more wealth, more people, more resources, more allies, then maybe. If I hadn't been so selfish and reckless and stupid—maybe. I lost my three eldest island-colonies: Orkney, Shetland, and Hebrides. They were taken away from me early. And I lost my youngest colony: Canada, because I abandoned him so very long ago. I lost them all, because—

                _I've been a horrible parent. And now I'm leaving._

                I look down at my sleeping colonies and shake my head, but it doesn't matter. Nothing can be changed now.

                Tears sting my eyes again and I stop singing. It's time for me to go.

                Cautiously, I lean down and kiss each of my colonies'—my sweet babies'—cold foreheads, whispering to each one: " _I'll always love you_."

                I stand up, turn.

                Dan is standing in the doorway watching me, a big, broad silhouette. He's looking at me in a way I don't like. It makes me feel weak.

                " _Norge_ ," he says.

                I wish he hadn't.

                He steps into the bedchamber and meets me in the middle. He's always been so strong. It kills me to see him looking so helpless, now.

                "They can't do this," he says, his deep voice—I love that voice—lowered considerately for the colonies' sake. They're such light-sleepers. "They can't break us, I won't let them. It's not our fault. It's Napoleon's fucking fault. It's France's fault, not yours. Not mine. Why are they doing this to us? There's got to be something we can do, someone we can bribe or threaten to fix it. Maybe we can pay them? Maybe we can fight it? I'll go to war with Sweden if I have to. I'll organize a resistance to fight him. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you, Norge."

                He's babbling, but I'm not listening. Not to his words. I'm listening to how his low voice undulates under the weight of emotion. I'm listening to the sound of his breaths, the gasps and intakes, the habitual intonations that make his voice his. I'm listening to the beat of his heart.

                "They can't do this!" he repeats, impassioned.

                Dan has always been the most emotional of us Nordics. He's never favoured the cold passive-aggressiveness the rest of us have adapted in modern-times. Dan has always been hot. Hot-blooded. Hot-tempered. Impulsive. His government, his people, may have evolved, but deep down Dan has never changed. They can dress him up, teach him new things, force him into submission, but he's still the warrior deep inside. His hands remind me of that as he takes mine in his. Big, strong, callused and scarred. Hands that won't touch me again after this.

                "I know I've made mistakes," he admits. His tone has softened, now. "I know I haven't always been the best partner, but I can't lose you, Norge. You and I, we've always been together. Even when Sweden left and took Finland, you..." He pauses, swallows. "You've always been with me. I can't... _Norge_ ," he says. His voice is so sad. " _I'm so sorry_."

                He knows now. He finally understands that we're cornered. We can try to fight Sweden, but I honestly don't think I have the energy left. My people are tired and poor from fighting foreign wars. Dan has strength in him, but I'm afraid it's not enough to stop Sweden and his allies. The strong control the world like they always have, and Dan and I together aren't strong. Not anymore. I'm sorry about that, too.

                Dan looks to the bed and tenderness joins the pain and sadness in his voice. "I promise I'll look after them," he says, squeezing my hands.

                Something inside of me breaks. I want to ask him to tell the colonies after I'm gone. I want him to make sure they know why I had to go and that I didn't want to go. I didn't want to leave them. I want him to tell them that I love them. But I don't ask. I don't say anything. I'm too afraid.

                Dan knows this, but he begs me anyway.

                "Norge," he says, blue eyes beseeching, "say something. Anything. Please, Norge."

                I wait a moment, then pull my hands gently out of his, breaking contact—only for a moment. Then I reach up and cup his handsome face, holding his defined jaw, his smooth cheeks. I can feel locks of his thick blonde hair. I used to braid it when it was longer. I memorize the feel of him. I memorize the way his lips tilt gently upward, even when he's upset; the way his nose slopes, broken so many times; the way his fair eyebrows draw together over his eyes when he's thinking hard; the way his blue, blue eyes pull me in and make me forget everything else.

                I kiss him. I kiss him like it really means something, because it does. I kiss him, knowing it might be the very last time.

                _I love you_.

                But I don't say it.

                I walk away before I can't.

* * *

**SWEDEN**

**SUMMER 1815**

**STOCKHOLM**

Norway is silent the whole journey to Stockholm. I let him be. There's nothing for us to say that we haven't already said on the battlefield and in parliament. If he wants to hate me, he can.

                It's late when we arrive and it's a cold summer. There's no entourage awaiting us. I offer my new partner my hand to escort him into the city, but he ignores me. He still hasn't looked at me. I take his hand anyway and pull him along. I don't want to be a villain, but I will not be disobeyed or disrespected in my own house. If Norway expects to be treated like an equal, he's mistaken. He's not my equal. Not here. I will protect him and provide for him, I will give him everything that I am able to, and I will respect him, but I will not tolerate insubordination. I am the master of this house, not him, and he will either accept that or live here in misery until he does. I squeeze his hand hard to convey this fact, but stop almost instantly. Norway's hand is not like Finland's. It's just as cold, just as white, but Finland has small hands that are round like the shape of his face, with callused fingers. Finland's hands have strength in them. I've felt it. Norway's hands are long and so slender that they're almost bony. I'm suddenly afraid that I might break one by squeezing too hard. Briefly, I wonder how he can wield a sword so efficiently with such fragile fingers?

                Finland is waiting in the foyer of my favourite house, bathed in silvery moonlight. He's rocking his son—my son— _our_ son—Åland.

                "Welcome home," he says, big, pale eyes going apprehensively to Norway. He knows why Norway is here. He knows that Norway is now my partner, my _wife_. He sees our linked hands. I quickly let go of Norway, but Finland has seen. "Hello, Norway," he says.

                Norway looks at Finland. He sees Åland cradled in Finland's arms, sleeping—and he looks wordlessly away.

                _How did this happen to us_? I think. _We all used to be so close._

                I break a tense silence, but I don't make it any less tense. I say: "Does Russia know you're here, Finland?"

                Why did I say that?

                Finland bows his fair head. "No," he admits. "I wanted to see Åland. I wanted to see..." He doesn't finish, not in front of Norway. He says: "I still have a key to your house."

                I nod. I don't ask for my key back, I want him to have it.

                "You should return to Russia."

                It's hard for me to say, but too easy to imagine Finland suffering Russia's wrath for sneaking away, even if it's just for a short time. If Norway must now obey me, then Finland must now obey Russia. It's how the game of conquest is played. We're all cruel at heart. We all want to take from each other what the other one loves most. Denmark and I have been playing this game for a long, long time, and just when I've finally won his most precious treasure from him, Russia has taken mine from me.

                _How did this happen to us_? I wonder again.

                Finland places Åland in my arms and brushes my sleeve. I don't need to feel his fingers skin-to-skin to know how tender his touch is. I take Åland, swaddled in a wool blanket that still smells a bit like livestock. It's been cleaned, but not dyed. I take the baby and cradle him close to my body, like holding a piece of Finland close. Finland smoothes back Åland's sunflower-gold hair and kisses his forehead. He whispers to the little archipelago in Finnish, and I know what he says because I've heard it before:

                " _I love you._ "

                Then Finland looks up at me, looks at Norway, and leaves. I watch him go until he passes through the gates.

                "Come," I say to Norway. I start walking, expecting him to follow. I have no hands to spare for him while I'm holding my son. "I'll show you to your rooms."

* * *

**NORWAY**

_My rooms_ —?

                "Am I not sleeping in your bedchamber with you?" I ask.

                "No," he says.

                He doesn't offer an explanation, and I don't ask. I follow Sweden to a suite of three connecting rooms on the second level of his lavish house, a stunning Gustavian house. He opens the double-doors to a sizeable drawing-room, a bedroom, and a boudoir. Are these all mine, just mine? I've never had my own room before. I've always shared with someone. First it was Dan when we were young, and then Sweden and Finland when they joined our family. Later it was my colonies. I loved sleeping with their little bodies snuggled close around me by the hearth, feeling safe in my arms. Then Dan again. I loved sleeping in his bed with my colonies snuggled close to us both, and how safe _I_ felt in _his_ arms. It was Dan for a long time. And it would still be Dan if Napoleon hadn't royally fucked-up. I'd never felt lonely on those long, cold, dark winter nights with my family beside me, but tonight it seems I'll be sleeping alone.

                I survey the stylish three-room suite and it's beautiful and empty.

                "Goodnight," Sweden says.

                He closes the door behind me, closing me in.

                I don't want to stay here.

                Finland and I have that in common. He doesn't want me to stay here, either. I saw the hurt in his eyes when he looked at me and saw me holding Sweden's hand. He saw the hurt in mine, too, when I looked at him and saw him holding his sleeping son. Since our youth, Finland and I have rarely met in peacetimes, but we've always understood each other. In fact, I think he understands a secluded part of my heart that no one else does. It's a compassion born of shared experience. It's tarnished by pity and envy and resentment, but it's not something we'll ever apologize for. It's not something we'll ever verbally acknowledge. It's just something we both respect.

                I walk into the bedchamber and see the large, empty bed and I feel tears roll down my cheeks. Here, I don't have to hide them. Here, I can finally let them fall.

                I walk to the cushioned window-bench and I sit there instead. It's bright out. The moon hangs low in the sky, big and pregnant. I wish it was dark. And I wish it was snowing—blowing, raging, howling.

                I bow my head to my knees and cry.

* * *

**DENMARK**

**COPENHAGEN**

I empty another bottle, but it doesn't help. I can't feel it anymore. I just feel numb.

                I set the bottle aside, but my hand shakes and slips and it falls onto the floor. It lands on a reindeer pelt and rolls. It joins all of the others on the floor, beer from the finest barrels in my finest breweries. How much of it swirls in my belly? How long have I been drinking in the dark for? What day is it? What month? What year?

                "Denmark?" says a small voice.

                I look up, blink. At first I see a single misshapen shadow. I blink again and it divides into three much smaller shadows: my stepsons. Greenland is clutching Faroe's hand; Iceland is standing a little apart. Iceland looks so much like Norge's colony—so much like young Norge that I make a strangled noise deep in my throat that scares Greenland.

                "Denmark," Faroe repeats. He's a good boy. He's trying to be brave. "Where's Papa?"

                I don't reply right away. I look at them, my three little stepsons—so very little—and I open my arms for them.

                They come over to me and let me wrap my arms around them, engulfing them. I bury my face in their silky hair—just like Norge's—and I inhale deeply. It smells different but it feels the same. I pull them all onto my lap and sit back in my armchair and hug them close. I'm shaking. I can't feel it, but they can. It's scaring them. _I'm_ scaring them, but I can't stop. The alcohol has numbed my body, but not my mind. Not the hurt.

                Hurt.

                Hurt.

                Oh God, it fucking hurts.

                "Denmark?"

                This time it's Iceland's melodic voice. I feel his soft, fragile hands on my face, so much like Norge's hands. He lifts my head and I let him. I look at him through a blurry film of angry, unshed tears. He's so tiny, so underdeveloped for his age, but he's not young and he's not afraid. He stares at me and his eyes are so, so beautiful. Just like Norge's violet eyes. They shine. When he's sure he has my attention, he asks gently but very seriously:

                "Where is Norway?"

                "Gone," I croak.

                Greenland cries. Faroe says: "When is he coming back?"

                "He's not."

                Greenland doesn't understand what's happening, but he's scared. He buries his head in my chest and cries, cries, cries. And there's nothing I can do except hold him.

                Faroe cries too, quietly; stoically. He's a good boy. A strong boy. His voice cracks when he says: "Why not?"

                I'm not as strong as Faroe. I feel broken. The Treaty of Kiel has fucking broken me. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to feel. I don't know how to pull myself together for my people, my stepsons. I don't know how to hide the hurt from the rest of the world. (Not that Europe doesn't know. They know— _the bastards_. They all fucking know and don't care.)

                I answer Faroe, but I'm still looking at Iceland. I can't look away.

                _Why not_? _Why isn't Norge coming back_?

                "Because I failed to protect him."

                That's it. I've said it. That's all I can manage. I'm done. I'm broken—fucking heartbroken. Drunk as fuck and fucking heartbroken. Fuck.

                I pull Iceland close and bow my head and press my forehead to his slight shoulder. He holds me. He puts his skinny arms around me and pets my hair and whispers in soothing Icelandic. I don't speak Icelandic, but I don't care. Iceland is so much like Norge. Not Norge, but like Norge. As close a copy as I have right now. So I don't care what he's saying to me. I only care that he's here with me. He and Faroe and Greenland are all I have left of Norge. The three of them—and the song that Iceland softly starts to sing. It's a lullaby, and I understand it because it's in Norwegian. In my memory I can hear Norge singing it to the colonies, singing to them in goodbye, and the last threads of my dignity let go.

                I rock my stepsons, _my_ colonies now, and I cry as Iceland sings softly to me until I finally— _finally_ —pass-out.

* * *

**SWEDEN**

**STOCKHOLM**

I can't sleep, so I go for a walk. It's quiet so early in the morning, a lot quieter than my mind is right now. I can't stop replaying the events that led us here. I can't stop seeing the look on Denmark's baffled face when England declared he and Norway separated, like someone had just ripped out his heart. I call him rival now, but I used to call him brother. I used to love him. A part of me still does— _brother_ —and always will, but that doesn't mean I don't feel justified in my actions today. It doesn't mean I regret what I've done. I know I did the right thing for Norway, for Europe. Even if it doesn't feel like a victory, I know it is. I tell myself it is as I walk down a moonlit corridor, not consciously aware of my destination until I reach Norway's rooms. I stop. One minute passes, then two. I don't know why I'm here, but I push quietly inside.

                It's bright. All of the windows are open, letting in a breeze that sweeps the gauzy curtains across the floor like ghosts, but nothing else looks touched.

                Why am I doing this?

                I cross the drawing-room and reach eagerly for the bedroom's doorknob. My heart thumps hard in my chest.

                Is it victory? Is it guilt? Is it because I miss Finland? Is Norway Finland's replacement? My new wife?

                _Why am I doing this_? I think as I step inside.

                My eyes land on the bed where I expect Norway to be, but he's not. He's sitting on the window-bench, curled into a defensive position, long legs folded, pale-blonde head resting on the glass. Asleep. He looks very beautiful in the moonlight. He _is_ very beautiful; I don't think anyone would disagree. How many others have touched him? Not many. I did once, a long, long time ago when we were all young and stupid. (We're still stupid—look at me; look at what I'm doing—but now our stupidity can't be justified by youth.) I've seen him and touched him before, but it was so long ago that I want to see him and touch him again. He's my partner, now. He's mine to have whenever I want (like Finland is Russia's to have whenever he wants), and right now I don't want to feel alone.

                I approach him slowly and lean down, seeing Norway's face anew; shaking the look on Denmark's face out of my mind.

                "Norway," I say gently, laying my hand atop his. I don't want to be a villain. I want him to want me, too, even if it's just for tonight. _I'm sad_ , _you're sad. Let's be a little less sad together._ "Norway," I say again.

                Norway doesn't wake, but he speaks. He whispers very softly: " _Dan_..."

                It's sad. It's pleading.

                _What am I doing_?

                I straighten and hastily back away. Norway shivers, as if he can sense the retreat of my body-heat, and wraps his arms around himself. Like that, he looks lost. And cold. I fetch a wool blanket from the bed and drape it over him.

                I look down at him and I see Denmark, Faroe, Iceland, Greenland. I see his family. I see their broken hearts. I see Finland's broken heart and the last dregs of lust go out of me. I feel awful. I tell Norway this:

                "I'm sorry, my friend.

                "I'm so very sorry," I confess to his deaf ears.

                Then I leave. I shouldn't have come in here. I shouldn't have taken Norway away, because now I'll have to look at him—at the heartache—every single day.

                _What in God's name have I done_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Åland, I know that it was ceded to Russia in 1809, therefore Finland should have taken Åland with him when he moved into Russia's house; however, I decided to leave Åland with Sweden for two reasons. Firstly, I really wanted to emphasize the Swedish influence (i.e. I'm perpetrating a ruse wherein Åland is Sweden and Finland's love-child :P). Secondly, I wanted to emphasize Finland and Norway's similarities by separating them both from their children. So, please excuse me completely botching up Åland's history to fit my plot.


	2. Part Two

**FINLAND**

**MID-1800s**

**STOCKHOLM**

Norway sits at Sweden's side, where I used to sit.

                He sits on the seat that used to be mine, the one I spilled ink on once and cried. The one Sweden loved me on—loved me, never just fucked me. Denmark fucked Norway, but Sweden always made love to me. I cried then, too.

                A part of me wants to cry now, and has wanted to ever since I was conquered by Russia. Conquered by, not married to. I may never have been officially married to Sweden either, but it felt like we were. He called me his _wife_. I thought I hated it, but I guess I didn't. I know that now. I know now how much better it was with Sweden. I know now how much Sweden really loved me and how much I loved— _love_ —him. I wish I had known it then. I never would've left Sweden if I had known Russia was waiting. Being Russia's little Grand Duchy makes me want to kill myself. And this, seeing Norway sitting at Sweden's side as his new _wife_ ; seeing Norway holding my son, _my_ Åland, makes me want to kill Norway.

                This is the worse state visit ever. And Russia is fucking smiling.

                Russia is looking right at Sweden across the garden table and smiling his big, stupid, childish smile that's not like a child's smile at all.

                Not like Åland, whose smile is joyful as Norway bounces him on his lap. Sweden's people tell me that Norway is rarely without Åland, that he takes my baby everywhere. I should be glad my son isn't being neglected in my stead, but I'm not. I'm jealous. I should be sympathetic that Norway's colonies were taken from him (or rather, he was taken from them), but I'm not. I'm bitter. I'm jealous and bitter about Norway's relationship with Åland—my Åland; just like I'm jealous and bitter about his relationship with Sweden. I wanted to ask Sweden's people if Sweden and Norway have sex, but I didn't. I want to ask, but I don't want to know. It's been thirty years since the Treaty of Kiel. Of course they're having sex! But is it just sex, or does Sweden make love to Norway like he used to make love to me? Russia has told me so many horrible rumours that haunt me and keep me awake at night. I sit in bed and say over and over: _it's not true_ , _it's not true_ , _it's not true._ As long as I don't ask, I can pretend it's not true.

                Norway tickles Åland's rosy cheeks and my Åland giggles.

                "Denmark looks really well lately," I say conversationally, "since you left."

                I say it because I want to hurt Norway, because he's hurting me—because I'm a horrible person. I say it because I know it'll work, and it does.

                Norway stiffens. "Dan— _Denmark_ is strong," he replies reticently. He doesn't look at me. He never looks at anyone unless he wants to fight.

                "Oh, yes," I agree, flavouring my voice with sweet cynicism. "He and Germany had a little... disagreement recently, but it's resulted in his government becoming a constitutional monarchy. And he's got free press now, free religion, and he's given the vote to all adult males, not just the bourgeoisie. He's become quite the _modern man_ , and quite the artist, too. Who knew that Denmark could paint? The Danish Golden Era, that's what all of Europe is calling it. Oh! And he's completely abolished slavery in the Danish West Indies. Can you believe it? Formerly the largest slave auctions in the world and now it's illegal. It's like he's become a completely new nation since you left him, Norway. I wonder if you'd even recognize him."

                I'm smiling a mercenary smile because I've hurt him, I can see it, and it makes me feel good. For a moment I feel like I've won something. I've made Norway feel just as badly as I do. _I'm a horrible_ —heartbroken— _person_. Then Norway's pale lips curl into a glacial smile. He ignores everything I've said about Denmark, and in a serene voice says:

                "Åland called me Papa Norway yesterday. It was so sweet."

                His words crush me. They hit me like a punch to the face and I stare at him in disbelief. I glare at him. I want to shoot him right in his pretty face and scream: "Åland is _my_ son! Sweden is _my husband_!" But I don't, because that's not who I am. I don't scream. I don't fight. Not here. Not like this. I might live on the boarders of Russia, but I'm still a Nordic, and we Nordics are not a confrontational lot. Not anymore. I look at Norway and he looks at me and we both know that he's won. He's been playing this cold, cruel game a lot longer than I have. It makes me realize:

                _What am I doing_? _Why am I trying to isolate the only potential ally I have_? _Why am I trying to hurt one of my oldest friends_?

                Norway stands up swiftly and excuses himself. Sweden nods. Norway bobs a curt bow to Sweden and Russia and then takes my son—my Åland—and leaves.

                _Oh_ , I think, feeling rejected, _that's why._

* * *

**NORWAY**

Norway!" Finland calls. He hurries into the courtyard, following me like I knew he would. I stop and patiently wait for him, his son aloft in my arms. Åland is asleep now. He sleeps so deeply, this little one. Mine are all such light sleepers, like me. Dan was always the hardest to wake.

                "Norway," Finland repeats, stopping in front of me. He extends his arms expectantly. "Please let me hold my son."

                I don't hesitate. Why would I? I know the look of a father who dearly misses his child. I see it every day in the looking-glass.

                Finland takes Åland and cradles him and kisses him, and I'm touched by the picture of paternal affection he doesn't try to hide. It's something I've always admired—envied—about Finland, how easily and openly he loves. I bet he used to tell Åland _I love you_ every day when he lived in Sweden's house. I wish I had said it more to my colonies, because now I can't be sure that they know. Do they know how much I love them? How could they, when I never told them? Finland's display tugs at my heartstrings. Maybe that's why I say:

                "Why are we acting like enemies, Fin?"

                He looks up in surprise. He regards me wearily, but shakes his blonde head: _I don't know_.

                "We're not enemies, are we?" I say, guiding the conversation.

                "No," he says quietly, cuddling Åland. He presses his cheek to Åland's head. It's gold, like Sweden's. His face has softened now, no longer the cruel sneer of a fox, and I think it's because of Åland. It's not Åland who needs to feel safe and soothed right now, it's Finland. "I've never wanted to be your enemy, Nor. I'm just... so unhappy," he admits, his voice heavy and tired.

                "I know," I reply evenly. "I have a family that I miss, too."

                With these words, I'm reminding Finland that I didn't choose this life in Sweden, it was chosen for me, and if I did have a choice it would be very, very different. I wouldn't be here. I'm reminding him how hard I fought to declare my Independence in the summer of 1814; that Dan and I went to war with Sweden—albeit, shortly—because we didn't want to accept the treaty terms. I fought as hard as I could, but I failed. I remember glaring up at Sweden's victorious face from my knees. I remember feeling abandoned by Europe, but Europe's never cared what we do in the north. I remember thinking: _Dan_ , _where are you_? _Why aren't you here_? I remember crying. Me. I fucking cried when Sweden threw me over his shoulder and carried me off. I'm reminding Finland of all this because he seems to have forgotten. He seems to have forgotten that I tried to fight Sweden's ownership of me just as fiercely as he tried to fight Russia's ownership of him. I'm reminding Finland that he and I are not so different, after all.

                "I haven't fucked Sweden, you know."

                Finland's shocked by that. "You— _haven't_?"

                "No."

                "Not once?"

                "Not once."

                Finland is trying to process my confession. He's skeptical, but he has no reason not to believe me. I've never been a liar. And I'm not a charitable being. If I wanted to hurt him, I would.

                "I just assumed..." he says haltingly. His face is twisted as he tries to picture Sweden and I together, and then realizes he doesn't _want_ to picture it. "I mean, you're married..."

                "But not to the person either of us wants to be. It's not like that between Sweden and I, Fin. Sweden has been good to me," I admit (it's hard to say), "but I haven't had sex in thirty years."

                Finland is quiet for a long time, but I'm patient. He looks thoughtful, relieved. I'm glad I can give him this, at least. He closes his eyes, but when he opens them they're glassy and reveal pain. In a soft, sad whisper, he confesses to me:

                "I _wish_ I haven't had sex.

                "I wish I... but Russia, he..." Finland takes a deep, shaky breath. "He's not home. He's not... Nor, every single day I wake up in Russia, I want to kill myself."

                I don't speak. I'm not good with words and nothing I say can fix it, so I simply open my arms. He comes over to me like a child, like my scared younger brother— _Do you remember when we were brothers_ , _Fin_?—and lays his fair head on my shoulder. He's still holding Åland, hugging the little one to his chest. I can feel Åland's rocky archipelago as I wrap my arms around them both and hold my friend as I rub his back.

                "I hate that this has happened to me—to us," Finland whispers. It's hard to know which _us_ he's referring to. It could be he and I _us_ , or he and Sweden _us_. Either way, he sounds bitter. "I hate that I'm so weak. I hate being so powerless, unable to govern myself. I want autonomy," he says even softer, like it's a secret. " _I want Independence._ "

                As I pet Finland's blonde head, I spot Sweden and Russia walking toward us from the garden, and I fleetingly lock eyes with them both. Sweden is tense, but Russia is relaxed and smiling. I glare at them and softly say:

                "Me, too."

* * *

**DENMARK**

**COPENHAGEN**

Is that Norway?"

                I startle and drop the paintbrush, freckling myself in sky-blue. "What happened to knocking?" I ask Germany curtly.

                "I did knock, you didn't answer," Germany says.

                I grab a rag and wipe my hands, smudging the paint. I feign boredom as Germany walks fully into the studio, looking dashing in a charcoal suit, his white-blonde hair combed back, his chiselled face flushed from the biting wind. I catch my reflection in the dark window-glass and realize how haggard I look in comparison. On my good days, I look good. I feel good. But on my bad days... I toss the rag aside and shake thick, paint-splattered hair out of my face. I'm shirtless with no socks or shoes on, and my suspenders hang limply at my hips. It's my studio, and I wasn't expecting company. I didn't _invite_ company.

                I watch as Germany draws tentatively closer to the piece I've been agonizing over in more ways than one.

                "You didn't answer," he repeats. "Is that Norway?"

                He nods to the large canvas. It's a landscape: a winding, sapphire-blue river flanked by evergreen forests and towering, snow-capped  mountains, the majestic fjords. It's a portrait of the most beautiful land on this whole God-forsaken earth. Of course it's fucking Norway!

                "No, it's Iceland," I lie.

                Germany knows I'm lying, but he doesn't contest it. He's way too formal to acknowledge what it is I'm doing. Landscapes to human artists might be low-profile, but to us it's a very intimate thing. Self-portraits are self-glorifying; and lots of empires paint their colonies. (France paints Canada _all the time_. For good reason, I guess. He's a beautiful young colony, like his father. His birth-father, not his imperial fathers—fucking France, fucking England.) But when we're painting each other, every brushstroke is like a caress; every detail a subtle exploration of that nation's body. Painting the geographic-body is the closest we can come to making love to the human-body without actually touching. It's like painting your lover nude. At least, that's how it feels to me.

                (I _may_ be drunk as fuck right now. And I _may_ do masturbatory things in this studio I hope no one ever finds out about.)

                "Prussia and I are going to Amsterdam tonight," Germany says, stepping back from the canvas. "You should come with us."

                Before I can reply—refuse—Prussia strides in, looking typically clean-cut and smug. _Don't knock_ , _jackass._

                 "Hey, cousin," he greets me, hands hanging casually from his trouser-pockets. (Does he intentionally ignore Parisian fashion? I don't think he's updated his wardrobe since the Middle Ages. It's entirely monochromatic.) He looks me up and down and nods in mock-interest. "You've really got that tortured artist thing happening lately, huh?"

                "What do you want?" I deadpan in reply.

                "Germany and I have come to drag you out of this... this hole," he insults my studio. (Okay, it's a little messy right now, but Prussia has never appreciated art.)(Okay, I never used to either, but I've needed a distraction lately and art is supposed to be soothing.) "Come on, Denmark," he orders. "Get dressed, take a bath—there's no law against it, by the way—grab your coat and pocket-book, and let's go get drunk in Amsterdam. Uh, drunk-er," he corrects, noting my inebriated state. "Whatever's been eating at you," he adds, pretending that he doesn't know; that everyone doesn't know, "Netherlands will help you forget it."

                "No."

                "Oh, come on, Denmark. Just for tonight—"

                " _No_ ," I growl. " _I can't_."

                Prussia tenses, sensing my tone, the cusp of me losing my temper. He exchanges a weary look with Germany. I can see exactly what he's thinking because it's written all over his pasty face. It says: _For fuck's sake_ , _pull yourself together_ , _Denmark_ , _it was just a fucking breakup_!

_Heartless jerk._

                "I can't forget," I break the awkward silence. "I... don't want to."

                "Okay," Prussia says cautiously. His rigid posture relaxes a bit, like he's trying to coax a kicked dog. He looks like he's going to reach out and touch me, but he doesn't, and I'm glad he doesn't. "Okay, don't forget it then. Not the good stuff, okay? Just drown the bad memories. Just once, just for tonight."

                "I can't," I repeat miserably. I swipe at my nose, painting it blue, and shake my head. "I've tried, okay? I've tried really fucking hard, but I can't drown these ones. These fuckers can swim."

* * *

**SWEDEN**

**DECEMBER**

**STOCKHOLM**

Norway is in the nursery, putting Åland down for a nap. I wait for a moment, then wrap my arms around his tapered middle and pull him back against my chest, away from Åland. I hold him close, bowing my head to feel the softness of his silky pale-blonde hair. I breath in deep. He smells a little like ice and evergreens, sweet like pinecones. He walks with me as I move backwards, out of the room. He lets me pull him into the bright, window-lined corridor. This is my favourite house because of all the windows that bath the interior in sunlight for the few hours a day we actually have it in winter. It's only two o'clock in the afternoon, but it's already the _golden hour_. It's my favourite time of day, maybe because it's so fleeting, so precious this time of year. The sun is sinking fast; it'll be gone in an hour.

                I walk backwards until my back presses against window-glass, holding Norway back-to-chest in my arms.

                He doesn't move and he doesn't talk and I'm grateful for both. I just want to hold him right now, my wife. He and I are family now— _we always have been_ —and today is a time to be with family. I wish that Finland was here. And Denmark, too. But they're not, so I hug Norway tightly. I close my eyes and take another deep, indulgent whiff of him. It's festive—sweet, like mulled wine. Tonight we'll toast the holiday and drink mulled wine together in a silence that's become comfortable—constant—for both of us. We'll plaster smiles to our faces and give Åland the gifts we've made for him, and for a little while we'll act like everything is okay. We'll act like a family. But once the baby is asleep, I'll go to my bedchamber and he'll go to his, and come morning we'll both stop pretending and go back to being what we actually are. Whatever that is.

                We've tried to become more a few times. Since 1814 we've both had our bad days, our lonely days, but one of us has always pushed the other away. We're never in sync. If I want him, he doesn't want me. If he wants me, I don't want him. Once, Norway came to me swaying and smelling strongly of vodka and wearing nothing but a robe that barely concealed his luscious body; sleeves falling off his shoulders; sash tied loosely at his waist, leaving his long legs on blatant display. He looked up at me and wordlessly licked his shapely lips, watching me through long-lashed violet eyes that looked hazy. Dead. I might have done it... if I hadn't looked into those dead eyes. Another time, it was me. I cornered Norway in the conservatory and swept him off his feet. I threw him down onto the billiards table and spread his legs, wrapped them around me, and kissed his neck—sucked and bit his neck—as I tugged at his clothes. I didn't feel like myself when I did it, but a part of me didn't care if I hurt Norway. A part of me _wanted_ to hurt Norway. A part of me wanted to blame him for everything that had happened to us. He let me grope him for a minute, then he pressed a hand to my chest and said: " _Stop_." And I did. That's as close as we ever come to having sex. We've kissed and we've touched, because thirty years is a long time to live with no physical affection, but it's never escalated into more. There's a line we're both too afraid to cross. Maybe it's because if we do it, if we have sex, if we make love, we're afraid that we'll lose something we'll never be able to get back. Something too deep and important to risk for a moment of pleasure.

                I lean down and press my cheek to his, and he reaches up and cups my face. I sigh and lean into his touch. I feel him turn his head and lift his chin, and then we're kissing. His eyes are closed, long, pale eyelashes brushing his cheeks. I close mine, too. It's slow and soft and needy, but not arousing. It's a kindness. It says more than either of us ever does.

                It says: _I love you_ , _but I'm not_ in _love with you._

                He pulls away first, but his lips linger close to mine. I can feel his cool breath. I can taste it. Softly, he says:

                "Happy Christmas, Sweden."

                "Happy Christmas, Norway."

* * *

**FINLAND**

**NEW YEAR'S EVE**

**ST. PETERSBURG**

At midnight it will be forty-one years, three months, and fourteen days since I was conquered by Russia.

                But I don't want to think of that now. It's New Year's Eve and it's snowing big, fat, fluffy flakes—the very best kind. Lithuania is carrying a lantern that casts a soft yellow glow over the snow, illuminating a forest of skeletal trees. There's no footpath, but Lithuania knows exactly where he's going. His ice-skates hang over his shoulder as he walks, leading us. The snow squeaks and crunches as Estonia and I follow him. Latvia is riding on Estonia piggyback. Latvia isn't much younger than the rest of us, but he's as carefree as a child, so that's how we all treat him. Maybe it's because we like to play with him and tease him and spoil him; maybe we feel like we have to shelter him; maybe it's our fault that he's never really grown-up, but even so I can't help admiring his positivity. Somehow— _somehow_ —he's never lost his innocence. I think it's because of Estonia. Latvia has been a good friend and ally and housemate to Lithuania and I, but to Estonia he's always been like a baby-brother. Estonia has always been Latvia's steadfast protector. I smile as Latvia leans forward to talk to Estonia, pressing their rosy cheeks together. He squeezes his eyes closed and laughs at Estonia's quiet reply. I'm carrying their ice-skates for them and feeling peaceful for the first time in months.

                Lithuania sets the lantern down on the frozen lake, creating an angelic circle of light. I strap my ice-skates on and I'm the first to begin a lazy circuit. I love the scraping sound of metal on ice and the feel of gliding. I don't feel like I'm as clumsy as I am on land; I feel graceful. My ice-skates slice through the fresh snow, creating twisting patterns. I thrust out my arms and throw back my head and spin in a circle, feeling invigorated as the cold, windless night kisses my face. I can hear Latvia's laughter as Lithuania hits Estonia with a snowball, then his shriek as Estonia races toward him in retaliation. Estonia chases Latvia into Lithuania's outstretched arms and then the three of them are sliding and spinning together. I watch them from a distance because I don't want to intrude on their play. I may be their friend by proximity and their housemate by force, but the three of them are family.

                It makes me miss my family, my son and—

                I remember the last time I went ice-skating with Sweden, just the two of us. It was a brisk, bright night and we skated beneath the moon. And we kissed beneath the moon. And we, uh... did _other stuff_ beneath the blinding full moon...

                I shake my head.

                I think about the last time Sweden and I went ice-skating together with Denmark and Norway. Denmark's laugh boomed like cannon-fire as he leapt at Sweden and the two of them crashed down. For a moment, I thought they had cracked the ice. I rushed over only to find them rolling around in the snow, growling and grappling with each other in a way that looked wicked, but was playful. Denmark sat on Sweden's chest and shoved a handful of snow into his face, laughing. " _Hungry_ , _Sweden_?" he taunted, until Sweden kneed him in the stomach. " _Ouch_! _N-Norge_!" he whined in self-pity. Norway ignored him. He was holding both of Iceland's mitten-clad hands as the colony took baby-steps across the ice, testing his balance. Later, I took hold of one of Iceland's hands and Sweden took the other and we pulled the little colony across the ice, listening to his excited giggles, keeping him safe between us while Denmark and Norway did _other stuff_ elsewhere.

                "Finland," says Lithuania kindly. He hands me an ivory flask of vodka. "Are you feeling okay?" he asks.

                "Yes, of course." I smile. I drink deeply. "Why?"

                Lithuania shakes head. He had tied his nut-brown hair into a ponytail, but a few locks have slipped out and are frizzy from play. "It's nothing," he says, taking the flask I pass back. "You just looked like you were somewhere else for a minute."

                _I wish I was somewhere else_.

                "Let's play a game," I suggest, skating off. Suddenly, I need to do something fast and physical. "I'll race you to the tree-line!"

                Later I'm back in Russia's house, untying my seal-skin boots when Russia walks in. "Hello, little Finland," he says. That's the only thing he says before he closes the gap between us. He doesn't kiss my lips. He never kisses my lips and I wonder why, but I'm also glad he doesn't. Instead, he kisses my neck and my shoulders and my chest as he undresses me, pulling off my clothes and discarding them with disinterest. Russia is a surprisingly slow lover, at least to start. He doesn't rush anything. He takes his time touching me in ways that make me shiver, as if he has all the time in the world. He uses his huge hands like tools that pleasure me as much as they torment me. By the time he eases me down onto my hands-and-knees I'm trembling in anticipation and my cock is weeping in desperate desire for more. He squeezes me and rolls his fist and I bite my lip, but a high-pitched squeak escapes me. _I won't beg_! I think, even as I cry-out in agony. Because I want it. I want Russia inside of me—or, my body does. My heart aches as I cave and beg my overlord to fuck me. I'll hate myself later, but right now I want it so badly I beg. Russia likes it when I beg. " _Please_ , _please—_! _I want it_!" I cry. And he gives it to me. He presses down on me, chest-to-back. He never fucks me face-to-face—I'm glad for that, too. I don't look at him and he doesn't look at me as his cock enters me, filling me. It's not an uncomfortable feeling, as much as I wish it was. It feels familiar. It feels good. So very good, and so very, very bad. I close my eyes and clench my hands and pant and cry, urging Russia—" _yes_ , _yes_ , _yes"—_ as he fucks me, no longer slow and teasing but hard and fast. I can feel his hot, wet breath in my ear. He ejaculates inside me and then pulls out, and I can feel his semen running down my thighs. I collapse on my stomach, my cheek pressed to the floor, flushed and panting and trembling. My knees are red with rug-burn. There are tears on my face. I feel Russia's smiling lips gently kiss my shoulder.

                "Goodnight, little Finland," he says. Then he leaves.

                As soon as the door closes, the guilt crashes down on me. I feel cold and alone and sick to my stomach. I feel cheap and dirty. Tainted.

                I curl into a defensive ball and cry. Alone in the dark, I start hating myself again.

* * *

**SWEDEN**

**STOCKHOLM**

I lie awake in bed. I can't sleep. I don't sleep well alone.

                Norway doesn't either, but he's always been a bit of an insomniac.

                Tonight is a bad night for me because everything reminds me of Finland. I don't think about him as much in the summer months. Summer is lively and busy and selfish, but winter is a time of quiet hibernation when friends and family should be together. It's a time to lock the doors and stoke the fire and drink hot cider and mulled wine and just be content in each other's comforting presence. It's a time we Nordics cherish for its simplicity and relaxation. There's no better feeling than having nowhere to be. It reminds me of being trapped with Finland and Denmark and Norway long ago, snowed-in because of a blizzard. Finland was pregnant with my Åland at the time and he was craving butter cake, so I made it for him. He looked so small in my sweater, so very beautiful. His smile is the most beautiful thing in the world. He and Norway were playing cards on the fur-covered floor in front of the fire and talking quietly so as not to wake Denmark, who had fallen asleep with his head in Norway's lap. Norway was holding a dealing of cards in one hand and absently teasing Denmark's blonde locks with the other. Denmark and Norway are surprisingly physically affectionate with each other. They were always touching back then, even if they had the babies between them. That night Iceland was lying asleep in Denmark's arms on the Dane's chest. The other two babies—Faroe and Greenland—were curled-up together in an armchair, snoring softly.

                That had been one of the worst snowstorms in living-memory, but when I think of it I don't recall the cold darkness. I remember the sound of the crackling fire, the weight of woollen blankets, the smell of pine and spruce needles, the taste of buttered treats, and the feeling of being safe and calm and happy. I remember holding Finland in my arms, his fair head on my chest, my hand resting on his midriff. I remember falling asleep to the steady, soothing beat of my wife and unborn son's hearts. Even though the storm raged outside for days, my world had never felt so peaceful.

                I don't know why I'm thinking of this now. Maybe it's the festive season that makes me think of my former-family, my brothers. My Finland. Maybe I think of Finland—his sweet smile, and the way his round eyes sparkle when he laughs—because he loves this time of year so much.

                Or, maybe it's because a part of me is _always_ thinking of Finland, no matter the season. I've been so lonely without him. I've felt so guilty.

                It's my fault he's gone. It's my fault he succumbed to Russia, because I wasn't strong enough to protect him back then, and I'm not strong enough to liberate him now. I let him down. How many words were left unspoken? How many promises were left unfulfilled? Seeing him with Russia kills me, because I know there's nothing I can do. I had my chance a half-a-century ago and I wasted it. I could've been more supportive. I could've given him more. Instead, I lost him because I wasn't strong enough—I wasn't brave enough—to make it matter. There are a lot of different kinds of strength in the world, not all of them physical. Love is, perhaps, the most difficult kind. It's the hardest won and the easiest lost. I lost Finland because I wasn't strong enough to be the partner—the husband—he needed me to be.

                My bedroom door opens, admitting Norway. He doesn't make a sound as he approaches, but I know it's him because I can smell him—ice and pinecones and a pinch of purple heather. He doesn't smell like alcohol tonight, and I wonder briefly why he's here. (He rarely comes to me sober.) Then he crawls onto the bed without asking and burrows under the blankets. His long, slender body curls against mine, his pale head resting on my pillow. I don't move, not to draw him closer and not to push him away, even though I want to do both.

                "I can't sleep," he says quietly.

                "Me, neither," I reply.

                We don't sleep and we don't talk. We lie together in the dark until sunrise.


	3. Part Three

**DENMARK**

**LATE-1800s**

**BERLIN**

I'm rifling through old documents when I see a pencil-sketch of a ship and I stop. We called ourselves voyagers, but the rest of the world called us Vikings. I've got to admit, I like their term better. I trace my fingers over the ship's two-dimensional details, remembering how it felt to build them by hand and sail by the strength of my own body, rowing back-and-forth; my muscles flexing, my back and shoulders rippling, my midriff clenching; the wind blowing my hair and biting my naked skin as the ship propelled forward. At the risk of sounding self-glorifying, I had a killer body back then. I looked like something truly formidable. (I still wouldn't trade it for chocolate cake, though. God, I love cake.) Back then I was hard as nails, and not just on the outside. Norge and I sailed everywhere in ships like this one. Norge and I _fucked_ everywhere in ships like this one.

                The thought prompts a picture of Norge in my mind. It's a memory, a good one—a _really_ fucking good one.

                He's leaning against the mast and wearing nothing but an unbuttoned fur-lined coat that's slipping off snow-white shoulders. His legs are spread, inviting me to take, but it's his eyes that seduce me. One look into those violet eyes and I'm gone. I'm his. And the arrogant (sexy) jerk knows it. I love the hungry way he's looking at me. It says: _I want you now_. He doesn't say a word, but he doesn't need to. I'm already crossing the deck and scooping him into my arms, slipping my hands under the coat to grope his damn fine ass before sliding them down his thighs, lifting him up by his thighs. I shove his back against the mast and press my whole body against his, and then we're kissing, kissing, kissing. It's all tongues and teeth, and he's pulling my hair, and I'm digging my fingernails into his skin. He wraps his legs around my waist and then I'm fucking him hard. I can feel his back strike the mast with every urgent thrust I give him. I can feel his fingernails scoring my naked back. I bite his neck. When Norge and I fuck, it's not slow and sweet and tender. Norge and I—we like it rough. I love the feeling of Norge's writhing body against mine; I love the smell of our mixed sweat and semen; I love the taste him, my lover, my partner in everything. But mostly I love the sounds of his gasps and heavy breathing. Norge never says anything when we fuck, except for my name. (" _Dan_ , _Dan_ , _Dan_ — _Oh_ , _Danmark_.") He's not loud and he rarely cries-out. He bites his lip and fights to keep his voice contained, and I love it. I love it because when he finally does break and cry-out (" _A-ah_!") it's because of me. His voice sounds like it's being ripped from deep inside him and it makes me want to fuck him harder. It feels like victory.

                I stop and shake the memory from my head. It's not the first time I've been hard in Germany—the country, not my little cousin—but I really don't want to get caught jerking-off here (...not that it would be the first time...).

                "Denmark?" says Germany, walking into the archive. "How are you?" It's as close as he ever comes to asking how I'm feeling. Germans (and Prussians) don't like to acknowledge that people have feelings.

                "Why do you have this?" I ask instead, holding up the pencil-sketch.

                Germany shrugs.

                "Can I have it?"

                It's hardly a work of fine-art, it's not worth anything to him (or anyone else). He frowns and asks: "Why?"

                I shrug and pocket the memory. Because it's worth everything to me.

* * *

**NORWAY**

I attend parties with Sweden, now. I attend these international gatherings as Sweden's possession, which is how I feel when they look at me, like I'm the barbaric bride of a conquered tribe. Not that they look for long; none of them care. Sweden is greeted politely and given all of the social graces that befit his international station, but otherwise we're left alone. I'm glad for this. I don't like crowds, I never have. Fortunately, my cold, vacant look is enough to hide the social anxiety I feel. I wear it like a shield to protect myself, but I've never been able to shake the discomfort that pinches my insides. I don't like meeting new people. I don't like making new friends. I've always been content with the few friends I have—I say friends, but I mean family. There are few nations outside of my Nordic family whom I can relax around. I'm guarded with everyone else. _Guarded_ , that's Dan's word. I miss him. As I scan the crowded ballroom, I miss the feel of Dan beside me, shielding me, guarding me. I feel exposed without his big, loud, boisterous personality. I feel vulnerable to small-talk without Dan to divert attention. As Sweden and I walk the perimeter of the crowded dance floor, I pray that no one talks to us. Without Dan's casual—mildly inappropriate—jokes and Finland's bubbly smiles, Sweden's and my social ineptitude is on blatant display.

                "Let's dance," Sweden says. It's not a question, but not quite an order. He suggests it because it's better than us hugging the wall like social pariahs. At least if we're dancing, we're moving. No one can talk to us if we're moving.

                I fold my right hand into Sweden's, then rest my left on his shoulder. It's not as broad as Dan's, and his hand isn't as warm. He's taller than Dan by a mere fraction of an inch, but I notice the difference. I'm not a good dancer, but Sweden is. He's memorized all of the steps to all of the fashionable dances, and I know this because I've seen him practicing alone.

                The picture of Sweden practicing his dance steps with a phantom partner is unexpectedly funny and I laugh.

                "Norway?" Sweden looks down at me in uncertainty.

                I shake my head in dismissal, wishing that I could share my amusement with him, but I can't. If I told him, Sweden would reply with something dry and logical, like: " _I won't learn if I don't practice_." He wouldn't understand the joke like Dan would.

                I miss laughing at Sweden and Finland—everyone—behind their backs with Dan. It sounds cruel and maybe it is, but maybe I don't care. Maybe Dan and I secretly have a cruel sense of humour. But it doesn't hurt anyone. We'd never want to hurt anyone with it; we're not gossips. When Dan and I laugh, it's not for anyone else. It's just for us.

                I'm still smiling to myself when Sweden spins me and I lock eyes with Dan, who's just walked in. I freeze. My smile falls. I haven't seen him in decades.

                He looks good.

                A part of me is glad he looks so good—spry, healthy, wealthy, stable— _so_ , _so sexy—_ and a part of me wishes he didn't.

                Dan smiles at me and for a fleeting moment I think I might actually faint. But it passes quickly and then I'm letting go of Sweden, excusing myself without a word, and I'm crossing the dance floor toward Dan. Dan's smile curls into a rakish grin as he leaves the ballroom, enticing me to follow, which I do. We end up alone in the library together, and suddenly I'm feeling too much all at once. Dan is everything that I want. He's the only one I've _ever_ truly wanted.

                "I've missed you, Norge," he says.

                Deliberately, I close the distance between us and kiss him. I throw my arms around his neck and thread my fingers into his thick hair, messing it the way I like it. I press my body against his as I thrust my tongue into his mouth and suck on his lips. A desperate moan escapes me, because I've missed this so much. I've missed kissing Dan. His lips are warm and soft and firm and—right now—they taste a little like chocolate. I've missed touching him, and I've missed the way he touches me even more. The feel of his big, strong, muscular arms wrapped around me, enveloping me in his embrace, makes my knees weak. I've even missed the sharp smell of him, a little bit salty, a little bit smoky.

                I want to say: _Dan_ , _I've missed you so much_. _Dan_ , _I love you so much._

                What I do say is: "Dan, fuck me right now."

* * *

**FINLAND**

I enter the ballroom with Russia, my hand folded into the curve of his arm. I wish it looked and felt awkward, but it's not because I'm used to my partner being so much larger than me. Russia's human-body is a fraction broader than Sweden's, but they're of a like height and that comforts me. Some people feel belittled by large men, but not me. I like large men. So does Norway. (If our sexual history isn't evidence enough, just look at the men we surround ourselves with.) Others might feel weak and insignificant surrounded by such physically powerful countries—Russia, Sweden, Denmark, Prussia, Germany, Netherlands—but it's not like that with Norway and I. As long as their leaders don't feel challenged, the big men of the north are some of the kindest and most protective in the world. (Even Prussia began his life as a celibate knight. People so often forget that he wasn't always a selfish dick.) So instead of feeling cowed by Russia's presence, I take comfort in it. I may hate living in his house; I may hate _him_ at times, but at least I know I'm safe from outside threats when he's near. Russia can be very cruel and very frightening, but he's fiercely protective of his _family_ (i.e. Empire).

                I spot Sweden and Norway dancing. Norway is stiff, but Sweden is a good dancer. He's not fluid like France and Spain, or elegant like Austria, but he's very precise. There's something actually graceful about his unyielding body as he moves, leading Norway in a circuit. Norway is smiling— _smiling_. It's been decades since I've seen Norway smile. But it's short-lived. Suddenly he stops. His face freezes, void of any readable expression. I follow his sight-line and see Denmark. It's like watching an Irish ballad come to life: the reunion of two lovers after ages apart. The way Norway's eyes soften makes me regret my past spite and jealousy. Without any visible provocation, he follows Denmark out of the ballroom, leaving Sweden alone on the dance floor.

                "Russia," I ask, indicating Sweden, "may I?"

                Russia's pale gaze flickers to Sweden and back, and he nods. (Sweden is hardly a threat to him anymore.)

                I cross the dance floor and stop in front of Sweden, my heart beating in anticipation. "Is this dance taken?" I ask cheekily, smiling up at him.

                His smile is easy and indulgent in return. He takes my hand—takes me in his arms—and we begin to move together like we've done hundreds of times before. It's familiar and comfortable and makes me smile bigger. I want to lay my head on his chest and hear his strong, steady heartbeat, but I don't. I squeeze his body beneath my fingers as he leads me around the ballroom, ignoring everything else. I can feel the cords of muscle in his shoulder, and the deep calluses on his big hand, and I tighten my grip on both. I look up at his handsome, chiselled face and my heart skips a beat, because he's looking down at me with those deep sea-blue eyes like I'm the only one in the room. The only one who matters. It feels so good to have his undivided attention. Russia's Empire is so large, I haven't had anyone's full attention in a long time.

                "Fin," he says in a quiet, base voice, "how are you? Are you well?"

                "Yes," I lie. I don't want him to worry. "How are you? How is Åland?"

                "He misses you. We both do."

                "I miss you, too," I say. It comes out a bit breathless as tears spring uninvited to my eyes. I try to blink them away, but Sweden's soothing touch only encourages them. The dance ends, but we remain immobile as the next one begins. He holds my waist firmly in one hand—I love the warmth and weight of it, drawing me in closer—and reaches up with the other to catch a teardrop on his fingertip.

                "You're not well at all," he says. His tone gently scolds me for lying. "Fin, you're not happy."

                Wordless, I shake my head.

                He keeps his hand on my waist as he leads me out of the ballroom and into the garden. It's lovely, but I don't see any of it as I walk, letting Sweden take me into the secluded hedge-maze. My vision is blurry. When Sweden stops, I bump into him. I start to step back, to apologize—I feel like such a fool—but he throws his arms around me and pulls me into a strong embrace. And I break. I lean up and wrap my arms around his neck, and bury my head in his chest, and cry. I can feel Sweden bowing, lowering us both to the grass. The next thing I know, I'm in his lap and I'm clinging to him and crying a century's worth of tears as he holds me.

                I don't know how long it lasts, but a part of me wishes it would never end. A scared, selfish part of me wishes that I could stay here in Sweden's safe embrace forever.

                "Su, I love you," I whisper. I lift my head and look into his deep blue eyes and they pull a confession from me. "I'm sorry I left like I did. It's all my fault. I'm so sorry that any of this happened, but I want you to know"—I _need_ him to know—"I _do_ love you, Su. Do you..." My voice catches, it softens. A tear rolls down my cheek. "Do you love me?"

                Sweden kisses me, and says: "I never stopped."

* * *

**DENMARK**

" _Ugh_ , _nn—Ah_!"

                I cum inside Norge, filling him up, coating his ass with semen and his palm with saliva. I'm breathing heavily into the hand he's pressed to my mouth in an attempt to quiet me. I pull it off and clumsily kiss his fingers, his palm, his wrist as I gaze greedily down at him. I can't look away from him. He's so beautiful— _so goddamn sexy_ —all flushed and sparkly-eyed, his ravaged body trembling because of me; because of the way I'd fucked him. I lean down and kiss the love-bites on his neck and shoulder. As Norge lies on his back, trying to catch his breath, I drag my lips and hands down the length of his body, slower now than before. When Norge said " _fuck me right now_ " I didn't wait. I don't think I could have. I was too desperate to have him, too desperate to bother with foreplay. Now, though, I want to indulge in him. I touch him slowly and lazily, like we've got all the time in the world—which, of course, we don't. Not anymore. Funny that when we _were_ married and _did_ have the time, we rushed it, we wasted it, but now that our time together is fleeting and forbidden all I want to do is stretch it. I wish I could stop time and stay here with him forever.

                "Dan," he says softly, breathlessly.

                I kiss the inside of his thigh, then raise my head.

                "I haven't fucked Sweden."

                I didn't know it's what I wanted to hear until he says it and I'm suddenly flooded with relief.

                " _You haven't_?"

                Norge shakes his head. "I haven't fucked anyone in a millennia. Just you."

                Relief melts into affection as I press another soft kiss to Norge's leg. I didn't think it was possible to love him more, but in this moment I do. His words make me happier than I've been in nearly a century. That is, until he says—

                "Have you?"

                And just like that, I'm falling. The high from Norge's confession bursts and his question sends me crashing down in a spiral of guilt. Suddenly, I feel sick. I hesitate just for an instant, but Norge knows. He can see the guilt on my face. He tries to act nonchalant, but his body betrays him. His soft eyes sharpen and he tenses, and I know I've disappointed him. He won't say it—he'll never admit it—but a part of him hoped I'd be just as loyal to him as he's been to me. I can see it, and I wish I couldn't. Because it kills me to see how deeply I've hurt him. Norge says none of this, but he's not looking at me when he asks:

                "Who?"

                I don't want to tell him. Oh, fuck—I don't want to tell him. I'd rather endure Medieval torture than tell him.

* * *

**1815**

I stumble across the street, narrowly dodging a carriage—disappointed that I didn't. I briefly consider throwing myself in front of the next one that comes by, but I crash into something else instead. Some _one_ else.

                I start a slurred apology, but then my foggy brain registers who it is.

                I grab fistfuls of England's overcoat and shove him against a brick wall. "You _fucker_!" I rage, fueled by anger and heartache and alcohol. "Why? _Why_?" I holler, slamming him into the wall with each word. (He weighs nothing—skinny sod.) "You destroyed my marriage, you bastard! You handed my Norge to Sweden, you _motherfucker_! Why did you do it? _Why_?" England looks shocked. He's pale, maybe scared. Good. He starts to speak, but I interrupt. "Was it because of France?" I snarl, tightening my grasp. "Was it for fucking France? I don't care how wet you are for him, you little pussy, _you ruined my fucking life_!" I want to strike him. I want to strangle him. I'm losing myself. I need to calm down, I know I do, but I can't. I'm shaking. "Why did you do it?" I repeat, my voice a raw growl. "Are you that fucking bitter that you had to take it out on us? Did you do it just to hurt France? Did you give Norway to Sweden for _fucking France_?"

                Finally, England fights back. He gets right up in my face and yells: "I would give the whole world for France!

                "I mean, to hurt France. That's obviously what I mean..."

                It's then I realize how deeply hurt England is, too. I look at him— _really_ take a look at him—and I can see my heartache reflected in his green eyes.

                After a tense moment, I deflate. I don't feel like fighting anymore, I feel like a drink.

                "I need a drink," I say, releasing England. I don't verbally invite him to follow me, but I walk slow enough for him to catch up if he wants to.

                He does.

                I duck into the first bar I see and order two steins. I push one wordlessly at him, then gulp down the other. I buy the second round, too; he buys the third. By the forth, I'm pouring my fucking heart out—grief and alcohol, bad mix—and he's staring at me through the biggest, greenest eyes I've ever seen, his freckled face propped on his hand. It's been a long and lonely night for us both and we're way past the boundaries of social etiquette, now. The one-sided conversation I've been having with him loosens my tongue.

                "If you love France so much," I say sagely.

                "I don't love France—"

                "Then why haven't you ever married him?"

                My brain, submerged in steins and steins of beer, is genuinely curious. It seems like such a simple thing to me, but England and France have never been simple. I think we all expected them to get married in the Middle Ages, back when France spent most of his time in England—and I do mean _in_ England—but they never did. Maybe they were too young, just teenagers in human-years. (Though, to be fair, almost everyone in Western Europe was fucking England and France back then.) I cock my head, the barroom slants sideways, and wait patiently for England's reply.

                At first, I think he's just going to ignore me, or deny it. I see a defensive glint in his eyes that tells me I've hit on something old and deep and private, but when he replies his voice is shockingly soft. The fight goes out of him, and he says:

                "He's never asked me."

                I don't move, I just stare—fucking dumbstruck. England raises his eyes to meet mine, briefly, coyly, sadly.

                I kiss him.

                I don't know why I do it. Even my inebriated brain knows it's a bad idea, but I do it anyway. I press my lips roughly to England's, forcing him back, back, back until I've pushed him out of the pub and into the ally. It's easy, he's so fucking skinny. He may command strength in the form of empire—the largest empire in the world—but he, himself, is a weak little island. And not even the whole island, just a portion of it. His geographic-body is the most vulnerable land in all of Great Britain. I know it, because I've conquered it before. His power is not self-reliant, like mine is. He's dependent. He always has been. Alone here in this cold, ugly alley, his human-body isn't big or strong enough to fight me and he knows it.

                He protests at first, struggling a bit—wriggling like a fucking fish—but soon he relents and sinks into my kiss. He grabs my head and pulls me down to kiss harder, wilder. I lift him off his feet with one hand and recklessly tug at his trousers with the other. He's shorter than Norge, and he weighs less; his legs aren't as long as he hooks one around my waist; his ass isn't the shape I'm used to, but it's good enough. It's there. He's there, squirming and whining as I shove my fingers deep inside of him. He's not kissing me anymore. Now his fingernails are digging into my shoulders and he's clinging to me, making noises that Norge never would, and I'm suddenly reminded of how much younger he is than me. Not that it matters. I've fucked him younger—a long, long, _very long_ time ago. Maybe I'm just struck by the fact that England has never changed. He's grown wealthier, more influential, more independent, more powerful, but he's still a scared, lonely soul at his core. As much as he likes to boast his isolation, he's still afraid of it.

                "Close your eyes," I order.

                _Close your eyes and I'll close mine_ , _and you'll pretend I'm France_ , _and I'll pretend you're Norge._

                England squeezes his green eyes shut.

                And I fuck him.

* * *

**LATE-1800s**

Norge looks as if I've slapped him. Abruptly he sits up, pulling his legs away from me.

                " _England_ ," he repeats coldly, staring up at me. He's upset—really upset. His face has lost all its warmth and animation. The affection is gone. He looks frozen, except for his eyes. His eyes fucking blaze. "You fucked England?"

                "Yes, but—"

                "England," he says again, letting a sliver of disdain into his tone. "Everyone in Europe, everyone in the world, Dan, and you fucked England. England, the one who did this to us. The reason we're not together."

                "I know, I'm sorry—" I reach for him, but he braces his hands in front of him.

                "Don't touch me."

                Then he's standing and re-dressing. My semen slides over the curve of his ass and down his legs as he pulls on his trousers. He starts to walk away from me and I panic. I can't watch him walk away from me again, not like this. I hurry to my feet.

                "Norge, wait! I can explain, okay? It's not what you think! It didn't mean anything!"

                He's not listening to me. He's still walking away. He'll reach the door soon if I don't do something.

                I lunge forward and grab his forearm. I just want him to stop and look back at me and know that I'd never intentionally hurt him. I want him to see the apology on my face, but grabbing him is the wrong thing to do. He moves so fast, I don't see his fist until it connects with my jaw. It cracks, but I don't let go. I tighten my grasp.

                "Let go of me," he warns.

                "Norge, please," I beg. I fucking beg. "It didn't mean anything to me. It was just a fuck, okay? We were both just upset after the Vienna Conference. And drunk. I was angry and confused—"

                "I was angry and confused, too," he snaps, "but I didn't fuck _fucking England_! He's the one who did this to us! He's the one who destroyed our marriage, Dan!"

                He's yelling now. I don't remember the last time Norge yelled.

                " _You fucked England_!" he screams in accusation.

                "Oh, come on, Norge—who _hasn't_ fucked England?" I argue.

                " _Me_ ," he says, and it's cutting. "I haven't fucked England or anyone else for a goddamned millennia, because I was too busy being _your_ partner, you fucking jerk!

                "No, don't— _don't_ ," he says, shoving me away when I try to hug him. I'm shocked and horrified by the tears in his eyes. Norge— _my_ Norge—is crying. He looks broken. "Let me go," he says quietly.

                I do, but I don't move away. I'm too shocked. Guilt is trying to choke me. All I can manage to say is a hoarse: "I'm sorry.

                "Norge, please don't go. I love you."

                It's true. It's so fucking true. I hate myself for hurting the only person I've ever been in love with.

                "Norge, it was a mistake—"

                "Yes," he agrees, piercing me with heartbroken eyes. "A big fucking mistake."

* * *

**NORWAY**

Sweden is on the terrace.

                I ignore the party and walk up to him.

                "Take me home," I say.

* * *

**SWEDEN**

I dry Finland's tears and walk him back to the party. It's late, now. Russia is waiting on the garden terrace, a monolith of stark whiteness in an otherwise colourful landscape. I wonder how long he's been waiting there. He sees Finland's red, puffy eyes and the tearstains on his face, but he doesn't acknowledge his distress. Instead, his accusatory glare is enough to cow Finland into bowing is head. There are a lot of things I could say to Russia as he coils his arm around Finland, pulling Finland away from me, but nothing I say will matter now, so I say nothing. I've already said the most important thing, but those words are not for Russia. They're for Finland's ears alone.

                I'm still standing on the terrace when Norway reappears. I don't ask why he looks suddenly murderous, his self-control tethered by threads.

                "Take me home," he says.

                And I do.


	4. Part Four

**NORWAY**

**EARLY-1900s**

**OSLO**

In 1905, I declare my Independence. And Sweden lets me.

                It's the twentieth-century, the world is a vastly different place than it once was. I've been working really hard to better myself for a long time now, taking advantage of industry, modern science, and social reforms, but these past few decades have made all the difference; the labour has finally paid off. I've finally got strength of my own. I've finally got wealth again. It's been too long and it feels so good. Sweden has been surprisingly supportive. I don't think he ever wanted to see me suffer. I don't think he ever wanted to dominate me, like Dan did. ( _A different time_ , I think, trying not to bitter the memory.) Sweden has even let me govern my own domestic affairs—for the most part, with the approval of the Swedish king. No one knows what's best for me better than I do, and Sweden—thank God—seems to finally understand that. He understands that what I've achieved this past century belongs to me.

                As I sign the constitution that solidifies my Independence, I'm proud of what I've accomplished in so little time. I'm proud of who I've become on my own. No longer am I someone's dominion, or territory, or lesser-partner in kingship. No longer am I the afterthought, the second-priority. No longer am I confined by matrimony. I'm single for the first time in five-hundred years. And I love it.

                I will never— _never_ —get married again.

* * *

Dan is at my door. He looks disheveled.

                "Norge," he says, worried, "I just heard. I—you, you're—Independence?" He's talking in syllables, as if the words are hard for him to speak. " _Why_?"

                _Why_? Is he fucking kidding me?

                "Norge, baby," he says gently, his blue eyes full of fear and disbelief as he explains to me: "You're not strong enough to be alone. You're going to get yourself hurt, go bankrupt, or suffer political unrest. Who's going to mediate your affairs? What if war breaks out?" he panics. "Who will protect you if you're independent? Who will look after you if you're all alone?"

                His concern is touching. He really does care about me. I think he always has.

                "Dan," I say, smiling. I reach up and gently brush my fingertips over his clean-shaven cheek. I still love this man. I always will, despite his _mistakes_ , but it feels so good to finally say:

                "Fuck off."

* * *

**COPENHAGEN**

_Papa—_!" shrieks Greenland. His big, black eyes grow wide and he drops his toys and runs at me. He launches himself at me, throwing his soft, pudgy little arms around my neck. I hug and kiss him, so glad to be holding him again. I lift my (former)colony right off his feet and he laughs, talking too fast for me to understand. (His words are a garbled mix of Greenlandic and Danish.) I've missed him so much. I've missed his squeaky voice, his clingy fingers, his beautiful dark face with round, rosy cheeks, a button nose, and big black eyes. He might be Dan's colony now, but he'll always be my baby.

                Faroe, too.

                Faroe sees me, and for a moment he just stares in slack-jawed disbelief. He's skinny, but tall for his human-age. His long-lashed grey eyes are as stark and stormy as ever, but, looking at me, they soften. " _Papa_ ," he whispers. He reaches out and takes my outstretched hand, and I pull him forward so urgently that he stumbles. I catch him and crush him to my side, holding Greenland one-handed. I kiss Faroe's wind-burnt cheeks and press my forehead to his. I breath in his briny scent and recall what he looked like one-hundred-years-ago when I left. He was still small enough for me to lift up back then. He was still a child. But he's not, now. Now he's a tough-fibred boy of twelve.

                I don't see Iceland until later. And I'm stunned.

                Iceland— _my_ Iceland; my fifth colony—is a beautiful teenager, now He's not as tall as I am yet, but he will be someday. He still has my eyes and my colouring, and he has my figure now, too. He still looks like me, more alike me than he ever has, but he doesn't look like my baby anymore. He's not the Iceland I left a century ago. Now, he's—

                " _Gorgeous_ ," I say, cupping his cheek. I can't believe it.  I'm both sad and happy. Sad because I've missed so much, but happy because he's strong and healthy and: "Iceland, you're gorgeous."

                He regards me through long-lashed eyes, and coolly says: "I've got good genes."

                He's stiff for a moment, trying to be nonchalant, but then, seemingly unprovoked, his full lips curl downward and his fair brow creases and his violet eyes fill with tears. He tries really hard to control his expression and blushes in embarrassment, but a sharp gasp suddenly escapes him, like he can't hold it in any longer. He chances a look up at me and his cool facade breaks. He bites his lip and shakes his head, and softly says:

                " _I've really missed you_."

                Tears spill from his eyes and roll down his cheeks.

                I don't speak. If I do, I'll cry too. I pull him against me in a crushing hug, my arms wrapping around his lithe body like ropes. I never want to let him go again, my Iceland. I never want to leave him again. He presses his forehead to my chest and returns the embrace, his fingers grasping fistfuls of my clothes. I kiss his pale-blonde crown, then lay my cheek against it. I can smell frost and pine-needles, honey and thistles; he's sharp and sweet. His snow-white skin is cold and soft. I don't know how long I stay there, holding Iceland, rocking him gently, my precious colony, until he finally lifts his head and says:

                "Don't ever disappear like that again." His voice cracks, but his tone is stern.

                I brush a lock off his forehead and smile. "No," I agree, staring into those glowing violet eyes, "I promise."

* * *

**FINLAND**

**ST. PETERSBURG**

Finland, what are you singing?"

                The Swedish lyrics get stuck in my throat, choked by Russia's cold accusation. "It's nothing," I say, avoiding his gaze, bowing my head in submission.

                I can feel his eyes on me and his body drawing close. He leans down over me, dwarfing me, and presses his lips to the shell of my ear. He simply says: " _Stop_." Then he straightens and walks away, hands clasped casually behind his back and whistling as if nothing has happened.

                I'm not allowed to sing Swedish songs or read Swedish books or speak Swedish aloud in Russia's house, even though it's my second-language; even though the majority of my upper-class population and all of my administrative and public institutions are Swedish-speaking; even though all of my business is still conducted in Swedish. Russia might not feel threatened by Sweden's ownership of me, but he doesn't like Sweden's lingering influence. He doesn't like any of his conquests to show cultural individuality, least of all a rival's culture. I tried to argue with Russia once. I tried to explain to him how much Sweden's laws and policies had benefited my nation, and how upset my governing population would be if I changed it, now; how much time and money it would cost. But I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have argued with Russia—and, that day, he reminded me why.

                " _Fine_ ," he breathed thickly in my ear as I trembled and cried, " _keep your Swedish laws_ , _little Finland. But do not forget that you live in_ my _house_ , _and in my house you will speak Russian or Finnish or nothing at all_." His huge hands constricted around my neck, squeezing my throat until it was closed. I tried to gasp, but I couldn't breathe. " _Do not forget_ ," Russia whispered in threat, " _that you belong to_ me."

                A couple of weeks later, Russia gifts me a pretty ribbon-wrapped parcel. He smiles as he presents it, as if he's genuinely pleased to pamper me.

                "A book?" I ask, unwrapping it. "A book... in Finnish?" I can't hide my confusion—or suspicion.

                It's a beautiful first edition of _Kalevala_ , a collection of Finnish folklore.

                "Enjoy it," he says (orders?), and then pats my head in a way he must think is affectionate, but which feels belittling, and he walks away.

                Despite the gift-giver's dubious intentions, I _do_ enjoy _Kalevala_. A lot. Even if it is Russia's ploy to attract me to Finnish culture instead of Swedish. (His plots are worryingly—almost comically—transparent.) But I read _Kalevala_ from cover-to-cover, then I read it aloud to my housemates. I read it so many times that the binding cracks and the gold-leaf flakes off. Russia is rather satisfied when he sees me carrying it, and, surprisingly, he starts to become more lenient with the concept of Finnish nationalism in general. He doesn't do this with anyone else, just me, and I wonder why, but I'm also too afraid of his fickle kindness to ask. Is it a kindness, or a sly tactic to lure me and my nation away from Sweden's influence?

                Since the night in the garden when Russia plucked me, crying, from Sweden's embrace, his attitude toward me has changed. He's nicer to me, now. He listens to me. He indulges my Finnish culture (in Finland) and is receptive to my requests as long as they're in Russian or Finnish. He still intimidates me, and he still takes my body whenever he wants, but he no longer does it to punish or dominate me. I don't cry when we have sex, now. He doesn't fuck me on the floor or against walls, but on his bed; and he doesn't leave me right after, but stays with me—kisses me, cuddles me. It's... nice. I know why he's doing it, of course. It's not because of any growing affection for me, but because he's changed his tactic in governing me. Fear has worked to cow Lithuania and Estonia and Latvia, and everyone else, but it has not worked on me. It's been a century, but, unlike the others, I haven't broken. Yes, I obey him. And yes, I fear him. But I've never stopped trying to quietly fight him. I've never let myself be resigned to my fate as Russia's Grand Duchy, and I've never pretended otherwise. So, Russia has changed his tactic. Instead of bullying me into compliance, he's trying to earn my gratitude and affection with kindness and indulgence (and, I'll admit, phenomenal sex). I'm the only one of his many States who's allowed to promote nationalism. I'm the only one allowed to autonomously govern myself. And it's all because he's trying to win my loyalty from Sweden—

                —which is why he hates when I exhibit anything Swedish. It's the only time he loses his temper with me, but when he does he chokes the breath from my lungs. It's a small reminder of how fragile our relationship still is. A small reminder of the limit to his smiles.

* * *

At night, my mind doesn't sleep. It replays the same scene over-and-over. It's not a nightmare, but not quite a dream.

                In it, I'm kissing Sweden. His firm, warm lips are pressed tenderly to mine, and it's so good—just as good as Russia's hungry mouth sucking my neck from behind. His is rough and carnal and the urgency sends shivers down my spine. I arch my back and press myself skin-to-skin against Russia's broad chest, even as I stroke my fingers through Sweden's golden hair, wanting him closer, closer. Russia is holding my waist, pulling my backside toward his erection; Sweden's hands are anchored on my spread thighs, pulling me onto his lap, onto _his_ erection. I can feel them both, both big, strong men and their fervent desire—desire for _me_ —and I love it. I want them both. I want Sweden's love and Russia's thirst. I want Sweden, who's my family, my lover, and the father of my son. But I also want Russia, who's given me a chance at freedom, in however small a way. I'm trapped between them and I don't know who to choose.

                " _Choose_ ," whispers Sweden.

                " _Choose_ ," growls Russia.

                _What do you want_ , _Finland_ , _love or liberty_?

                " _Choose_ ," they demand, grabbing me, pulling me. It's protective, it's possessive—I don't know the difference anymore. I don't know what to do.

                I'm in love with Sweden, but Russia has given me something Sweden never has and probably never will: the illusion of freedom in autonomy. It's more than I've ever had, and more than I'm ever likely to get. I want to choose Sweden, but he's my past. I don't want the past back. As many fond memories I have of the past, they're all shackled. I want the future, which is Russia. But, oh!, how uncertain a future Russia is! I don't trust him. I _can't_ trust him. I _can_ trust Sweden—I can trust Sweden to be the same steady, stoic overlord I've always known, who loved me enough to claim me and care for me, but never enough to marry me. Never enough to grant me my independence and let me go.

                " _Finland_ ," they say, both in deep, commanding voices. " _Who do you want to be with_?"

                _I don't know. I don't know_. _Both of you—neither of you_.

                My heart—my people—yearn for Sweden, but my body—the nation, itself—wants Russia.

                " _Choose_!" they yell.

                No, I can't. I can't do this. They're going to tear me apart.

                " _Choose_!"

                I wake up gasping every time: my heart pounding in my chest, my pillow wet with tears, the bed-sheets damp with sweat and tented at my pelvis. I cover my face and cry in the silence.

* * *

In 1905, Russia is forced to entertain Sweden for a state visit. It's cold. Both of them are stiff and formal, and Russia's cruel smile is like frost biting at Sweden's stark words. Russia plays a good host and offers Sweden refreshment, which Sweden politely accepts but doesn't eat. The tension is thick between them and I, alone, am not enough to dispel it. In fact, my presence only fuels their rivalry. Unlike the state visit in Stockholm, Norway's not here to support Sweden as I'm here to support Russia, however unwillingly. Norway's not here to balance the political power-play and counteract Russia having me at his side while Sweden sits opposite us, alone. Russia considers this a victory and milks his guest's discomfort by touching me at every opportunity. I blush and look at everything but Sweden's sea-blue eyes.

                When Russia excuses himself, leaving us alone together ( _a tease_? I wonder), I ask Sweden where Norway is.

                "Norway is no longer mine," he replies, matter-of-fact. "He and I are divorced."

                " _Divorced_?" I blurt in shock. "But—why, how? Has he remarried Denmark?"

                Has there been a conflict I don't know about? Has Denmark somehow won Norway back from Sweden? Has something happened to Sweden to weaken his strength? Is he ill? Is he bankrupt? I'm so taken aback by this news that I've impulsively leapt out of my seat.

                Sweden, however, doesn't move. He simply says: "No, he's not married. I granted Norway Independence."

                For a minute, it's so dead-silent in the room that I can hear distant bells tolling the time. I don't speak. I just stare at Sweden in disbelief, seeing him anew.

                Sweden has given Norway Independence—?

                _Sweden_ has given _Norway_ _Independence—_?!

                I don't believe it. I've misheard him, I must have. I'm dreaming. This is a dream, it has to be, because Sweden would never willingly release his conquests. He's an Empire. (He was a _Viking_!) Empires are greedy, selfish. He's been a competing Empire ever since the Kalmar Union broke apart. And Norway? Sweden has been fighting Denmark over Norway for just as long! I can't believe he would suddenly just let Norway go, because—Why? Because Norway asked? No. It's not something the Sweden I know would ever do. It's not possible. _I don't believe it. I don't believe it. I don't_ —

                "Fin?

                "It's true," he Sweden, reading my disbelief. "Norway is an Independent country, now."

                Finally, my mind stops racing and I look up at him—I finally _see_ him. There are so many things I want to ask him:

                _Why now_? _Why Norway_? _Why not me_?

                I simply say: " _Why_?"

                Sweden's posture is rigid. His voice is deep, and his tone is monotonous as ever, but his blue eyes are tender.

                He says: "Because losing you was the worst thing that has ever happened to me, but it made me realize something important. I love my family more than I love Empire, and I never want to hurt any of you ever again."              

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly, I know nothing about the Faroe Islands and Greenland's relationship with Europe. But the fictional family dynamic is pretty cute, no—? ...My sincerest apologies, Faroe Islands and Greenland. u_u As for Iceland, I decided to emphasize the "Hetalia"-(head)canon relationship of Norway and Iceland as opposed to any accurate historical interpretation.


	5. Part Five

**NORWAY**

In 1914, the Great War rips Europe asunder, but Dan and I both maintain our neutrality. Well, Dan more so than I. Officially I'm a neutral power, but unofficially I'm lending my marine strength to England to help him defend the Atlantic and break the German blockade, which has crippled us all. (Submarines. The Germans engineered dozens of their fucking U-boats. When had they done that? _How_ had they done that?) It doesn't take long for Europe to start calling me "The Neutral Ally" because of my involvement in the conflict. It's a slippery, shadowy, secretive title that I like. It fits me. Mine is an allusive role, but I play it well. I like being useful—being acknowledged for myself and my achievements, not Dan's; not Sweden's. And I _really_ like the money I earn playing benevolent merchant. (I'm making a fortune selling supplies.) But most of all, I love that I've finally been reunited with my abandoned colonies, Iceland and Canada, with whom I patrol the Atlantic. Together we're fighting to preserve the Allies—England (I'm fighting for _fucking England._ How times change.)—and defeat the hungry Central Powers.

                If the later nineteenth-century had been advantageous for me, it had been a lottery for the Germans.

                I've never seen a country grow so powerful, so stable, so rich, so self-confident in such a short time, but that's the unified nation that Prussia and Germany have created. It's like they had been biding their time for decades, for centuries, waiting for the opportune moment; waiting and watching and studying everyone else's mistakes; fortifying their own home territory while everyone else was still fixated on global empire. I've known Prussia and Germany for a long time. I know how cautious they are. Unlike Dan—who likes a battle-cry and a suicide charge—Germania's sons rarely move without plotting out a detailed plan-of-attack. They've always been hard workers, and they've always had unshakable ideals. (Stubborn as hell, those two.) But most notably—most frighteningly—they've recently become wickedly good at recruiting others to their cause.

                Honestly, I'm surprised that Dan hasn't joined them in the war. The Germans are his closest blood-relatives. But maybe that's why he's remained neutral, because even though he disagrees with their politics, he still can't bring himself to fight against them. Not again. Not now that he knows he can't win, like an old man bested by the youths he once taught. Maybe he doesn't fight because he can't bear the thought of everyone seeing just how far he, the mighty—outdated—warrior, has fallen. (Though, calling Dan outdated and Prussia a modern-man is an oxymoron.) Or, maybe he doesn't fight them because he's already lost too much. In the past decades, he's acquired many things—wealth, stability, art, science, medicine, industry—but he's been shaken by the loss of his family, the thing that Dan has always cherished most. No matter how royally he fucks up, no matter how often they fight, he always loves them. He always loves _us_. And we always know that.

                Dan and I only meet once during the war, and it's brief.

                "Dan—?" I say.

                Dan shakes his head. "I can't," he says, shrugging. It's a heavy gesture, as if his shoulders weigh a ton. "I can't fight them."

                "Why not?" I ask.

                I know he's suffering, I can see it. I know he doesn't want to talk about it, but for once I'm the one pushing for an answer, because I want to know. I _need_ to know. He and I have fought in countless battles over the years. We've fought together and apart, but I've never known Dan to hesitate, to ruminate. I've never seen him look so opposed to the fight, especially this one—the war to end all wars. It's truly the most horrific form of fighting I've ever seen, but it's also going to have the longest lasting legacy in history. So, why won't he fight? I need to know why he won't fight with or against me in this one, because I know it's not fear and I know it's not politics. Dan is such an open person that I usually don't need verbal confirmation from him. He's the only northerner I know who doesn't actively control his emotions. But this time I need to hear him say it.

                "Why not?" I repeat, pushing. "What won't let you fight, Dan? Your hands or your heart?"

                He looks at me, his blue eyes sad. "Both.

                "I'm tired," he says honestly. "I'm tired of fighting all the people I love."

                Our meeting is brief, but cutting. When I fail to reply, he shrugs again and walks away, like it doesn't matter; like nothing matters anymore. I'm left staring after him, speechless. I want to call him back. I want to soothe him, and hold him, and tell him it's all going to be okay because this darkness won't last forever, even if it feels like it will. ( _The war will be over by Christmas_? _Pft_!) But I say none of this.

                I can't say a word, because looking at him breaks my heart.

                Then and there, I wish I could end it. I wish I had the strength to silence both sides of the conflict and bring a swift end, if only to spare Dan the pain; pain that's obviously been eating away at him for years; pain that has little to do with the present state of the world. So badly do I want what optimists are saying about this war to be true, that it really will be the end of warfare forever. But I'm not an optimist, and, try as I may, I don't believe for a second that it's true. I'm not naive. I've been alive for far too long to believe that something so idealistic could ever be possible. I don't believe for a second that my colonies will live to see a world without war. That's nonsense. That's a fucking fairytale. And if I'm being honest, maybe it's better they don't.

                I hate seeing Canada fight on the Western Front, fighting a war that he could have easily avoided if he wasn't bound to do England's bidding. A part of me knows that it's good for colonies to experience war, the good and the bad. In a sick, twisted way, this war couldn't have come at a better time for colonies (excuse me, _countries_ ) like Canada, because it's an experience they need to suffer in order to learn and grow, and I'm happy for him. I know what it feels like to finally earn recognition and respect for your own achievements and not have to share those victories with an overlord—a father, or partner, or master—and because of that, I wouldn't deny it for Canada (and Australia, and New Zealand, and all of the others). As nations, it's good for them. But as (former)colonies, as children? As _my_ child? The bigger part of me can't stand to see children fighting in this horrific war. I think: _How could anyone do this to them_? I look at them and I think: _They're all too young_ _for this_! even though I was younger than them on my first campaign. I look at Canada and I know that he's technically over one-thousand-years-old as a nation, but as a country he's young, and as a human he's young. In human-years he's only fifteen-years-old.

                Fifteen.

                If he were mortal, he wouldn't be old enough to enlist in his own army. And Australia and New Zealand are even younger.

                I look at England—the proud imperial lion surrounded by his cubs—and I think: _You're a fucking bastard._

                A child should never have to fight his parent's battles.

                Then I look at Iceland. _My_ Iceland.

                I think of the last century—the last millennia—and my heart grows heavy with the weight of shame.

                Eventually I realize how tired I am, too. It's not just Dan whom this war has taken its toll on. It's all of us. It's me, too. It makes me proud and angry (mostly angry) to see my children subjected to such horrors; and it makes Dan depressed to stand back and watch the family he loves fight. When Netherlands' neutrality is ignored by Germany and he's made to suffer for _not_ taking part in the brutality and bloodshed, Dan finally stops watching the conflict and locks himself away inside his house, pretending not to see and not to feel.

                Looking back, that first world war really tore the Germanic family apart, perhaps more than any other family in Europe. It hurt them all.

* * *

**FINLAND**

**1917**

**ST. PETERSBURG**

RUN!" Lithuania screams.

                I watch in horror as Prussia grabs the back of Lithuania's coat and yanks him off his feet. He crashes against Prussia's chest, flailing like mad—twisting and punching and kicking—but Prussia is too powerful. He beats my poor housemate into submission, then sweeps Lithuania up and throws him over his shoulder like a hefty sack of potatoes. " _Poland_!" Lithuania yells, " _Poland_ , _help me_!" But Poland is in no position to help anyone. His fragile figure is lying on his back on the ground, unconscious, his fair hair matted with blood. " _No_ , _no_ —!" Lithuania pleads. " _Let go of me_!" He starts to sob when Russia appears, a metal pipe in his hand, murder in his eyes. He repeats Lithuania's cry: " _Let go of him_ , _Prussia_! _Lithuania belongs to me_!" Russia swings at Prussia, who dodges and strikes back. Lithuania is jostled. He squeezes his eyes shut in defeat, clenching fistfuls of Prussia's jacket, and repeats over-and-over: " _Leave me alone_! _All of you_ , _please_ , _just leave me alone_!"

                "Finland!" says Estonia hurriedly. He's holding tight to Latvia's hand; Latvia, who's sweet face is bruised and tear-stained.

                I feel terrible, but I turn my back on Lithuania and sprint after Estonia and Latvia, the three of us running as fast as we can to escape the fall of the Russian Empire.

                It's devastating. I can hear people crying and screaming as I run for the coast; I can hear the Bolsheviks' guns blasting, breaking the tsarist regime. It's red, so red. I run past bourgeois corpses, people that have been ripped from their homes and murdered in the streets. I run past others who are being beaten and handcuffed, dragged off to face a firing-squad or prison. The bloodlust reminds me of my Viking days when we plundered and pillaged with no regard for anything but our own greed. The only difference between then and now is that the Bolsheviks are fighting _against_ greed. They're fighting for a better Russia, a fairer Russia; a Russia who's starving majority can prosper; a Russia for the people, not the aristocracy. When I finally reach the Baltic coast, I cast one last glance over-the-shoulder at Russia and Prussia's struggle, and I see it there on Russia's bloodless face. He's tormented. I've never seen him look so afraid; so shattered; so desperate; so crazed. He attacks Prussia with all of the force and anguish of a man gone insane, and in that moment I actually feel sorry for him. I actually pity my overlord, the man who's made me hate myself for over a century. It's twisted, but this is what the war— _The Great War_ —has done to us.

                " _Finland_ , _hurry_!"

                I accept the hands that reach down to haul me onto a ship. It's stormy and the ship rocks violently, the Baltic frothing and crashing against the hull. I shiver and huddle in a crowd of my fleeing countrymen as the ship pulls away from the dock, heading west. It's cold and dark and I'm soaked and peppered with hailstones, but the moment I see the lights of Helsinki, I feel a warmth spread through me and suddenly I'm happier than I've been in one-hundred years—no, in seven-hundred-years! I'm so happy, I cry. I clap my hands to my mouth and I sink to my knees and bawl like a baby because I'm home.

                Finally— _finally_ —I'm home.

* * *

**22 DECEMBER 1917**

**HELSINKI**

I sign the official document that decrees my Independence. Then I run.

                I laugh and holler and kick up a spray of powdery snow in elated bliss. I feel so, so good. I spin in a circle, my arms flung out, and then I race off again. Sweden's boarder-guard doesn't even flinch as I pass by, too used to seeing me; too blindsided by my giddiness. I take a key out of my pocket, the key he never wanted back, and unlock the front gate of Sweden's favourite house.

                " _Åland_!" I shout, flushed and gasping. I trip on the pathway, clumsily catch my balance, and then run faster. " _Åland_ , _where are you_? _I'm here_ , _baby_! _Papa's here_!"

                A beautiful five-year-old pokes his gold head cautiously out of the house, sees me, and his cherub face splits into a glowing smile. " _Papa_!" he shrieks, bounding toward me.

                I fall to my knees and catch Åland as he jumps into my arms. I squeeze him and kiss him and cry joyful tears as I rock him back-and-forth; and his laughter sounds like silver bells; and he smells like icy brine and spring flowers. I kiss his head and his rosy, chubby cheeks and his little, pudgy hands, still soft with baby-fat. He has Sweden's looks, Sweden's blue eyes, but my smile and my laugh.

                "I'm here, baby," I say, hugging him tightly. "I'm here, and I'm never going to leave again. I promise, Åland, I will _never_ leave you again."

                "Fin."

                I look up to find Sweden standing a few feet away, watching Åland and I. He looks baffled to see me here, but it doesn't stall him for long. Deliberately, he marches forward and sinks to his knees in the snow beside me, then takes my face in his hands, searching me for signs of injury.

                "I heard what happened in Russia after the war— _during_ the war," he says, staring intently at me. "I heard about the Revolution. Fin," he repeats worriedly, "are you okay?"

                I nod, eyes flooded with tears—happy tears. "Yes," I say honestly. "Yes, I'm okay. I'm free, Su. Today I was granted my Independence. I'm finally free."

                Sweden takes a minute to process my declaration, to acknowledge it, but as soon as the shock recedes from his face it's replaced with an indulgent smile. "Congratulations, Fin," he says in support. He kisses my cheek, then my lips. "No one deserves it more than you. I'm so proud of you."

                "Thank-you," I say. My voice is a soft whisper of disbelief, because I think he really means it, and that means more to me than anything. I lean up—Åland still pressed to my chest, stuck between us, now—and kiss Sweden's lips. And it's perfect. He wraps his big, strong arms around me and pulls me closer, up onto his lap, and I'm still holding my son—our son—as he kisses me like he hasn't kissed me in years, in decades, in centuries. It's chaste until I open my mouth to him, eager to taste his tongue, which tastes like spearmint and the sharp bite of vodka in its purest form. His skin is cool, but his lips get hot as mine harass them, sliding and pressing down in a back-and-forth struggle that can only be described as reckless. " _I love you_ ," I gasp between fervent kisses. " _I love you. I love you_. _I love you._ "

                "I love you, too, Fin."

                Eventually, we get up and dust powdered snow off of ourselves, but we don't part. I hold Åland aloft, his little legs dangling, and Sweden wraps an arm around my shoulders.

                "Come on, sweetheart," I say to Åland, kissing his nose. I look at Sweden, who glances briefly eastward, then smiles at me, as if to say: _I'll walk you back._ I, too, look to my homeland and I can see the turmoil of political unrest. I can feel the onslaught of an ugly Civil War, but there's strength as well. There's unity, despite the factions vying for power. There's a shared feeling of relief, as if a weight has been lifted, as if a fire has suddenly been rekindled. I look at my homeland and I see a future free of tyranny and oppression. For the first time in a long, long, long time, I look at my homeland and see a dark, desolate nation full of renewed hope.

                I smile, and say: "It's time to go home."

* * *

**DENMARK**

**1920s , 1930s**

I survived. _We_ survived. By some fucking miracle, all of my family survived The Great War. None of us are unscathed, but we're all alive.

                I'm so relieved, I think I might fucking cry. Even though the _Peace_ Treaty of Versailles has crippled Germany and Prussia—humiliated them; bankrupted them; broken them—at least they're alive. They, of course, feel otherwise about the outcome. I'm not invited to the peace conference, but I see Germany and Prussia afterward. I see them, but I don't go near them, because they both look like lit fucking grenades. They're _pissed_. I also see England and France, and they're euphoric. I bet they fucked each other blind right on the conference table, right on those documents that declared them the victors of the biggest conflict in history. I know that France and Prussia have been friends for a long time, but it's going to take a lot of coaxing from middleman Spain this time to patch the rift they've torn between them. Though, Spain is facing his own problems right now. Civil Wars are fucking ugly.

                The important thing is, we're all alive. I'm alive. Norge is alive—and he's pregnant again (and horny as fuck).

* * *

**COPENHAGEN**

_Nn—uh_ , _Dan—A-ah_!"

                Norge falls back into a brace of soft pillows and I collapse on the mattress beside him. I'll never get tired of fucking him. He'll never fail to excite me. Never. I shift closer to him, skin-to-skin, and press a tender kiss to his bare shoulder, tasting sweat. His lips kiss my temple in reply. I can feel his cool, fluttering breath, still a bit uneven. Then I tilt my head and smile at him and he smiles at me and we share a slow kiss before an exhausted silence settles over us.

                Over the past couple of years, I've lived for these quiet, comfortable moments with literally nothing but love between us. _Finally_. Norge had been cold to me for so long, I was afraid that we'd never recover. I was afraid (afraid to even consider) that we were done being together for good, as partners, lovers, friends, brothers—everything—and it nearly destroyed me. Then The Great War happened and, weirdly, that's what saved us. As soon as the Allies declared victory, Norge was at my door, in my arms, and in my bed. It was frantic and urgent and desperate and passionate. We barely spoke, but we didn't need to. We've never really spoken with words.

                He said: "I'm sorry, Dan."

                I said: "I'm sorry, too. About everything. I love you, Norge."

                And that was it.

                Doubtless, everyone thinks his twentieth-century pregnancy is my doing, but it's not. Norge has always given birth, established new colonies, new settlements, on his own. I've just been lucky enough to be by his side five of the eight times.

                I kiss his neck, then his jaw, and whisper: "I love when you're pregnant."

                He barely reacts, typical.

                "Do you?" he asks, feigning disinterest.

                "Uh huh." I tease his earlobe with my teeth. "It makes you _insatiable_."

                I'm thanked with a sudden jab to my ribs, which pulls a winded " _Oof—_!" out of me, but Norge is smiling, the Lights in his violet eyes glowing.

                "Got a name yet?" I ask, laying my head down on his chest, listening to the heartbeat of his unborn colony. (I think this is _actually_ my favourite part of Norge's pregnancies, listening to the evidence that a new life is being born.)

                Norge is thoughtfully quiet for a minute, then he says: "Svalbard."

* * *

And this one?" I ask, because Norge is pregnant _again_. (Again, not mine.)

                Norge is rocking Svalbard, who's the whitest baby I've ever seen in my life—and that includes Prussia. There isn't a lick of colour in this kid, not even rosy cheeks; even his eyes are pale, pale grey. "He looks like someone dipped him in flour," I said the first time I saw him, though Norge didn't agree with—or appreciate—that comment, and I had to quickly add: "In a cute way, of course!" But he's a real nice baby, a very quiet baby. I've never once heard him cry, which is a nice change, since all of Norge's other babies screamed the first time I held them. Norge is rocking Svalbard to sleep, pacing slowly back-and-forth in my bedroom, because we're both staying in my house tonight. Even though we're not married anymore, he spends a lot of time in my house, because: a) we're friends and lovers again; and b) his colonies still live here with me. He pauses briefly to see me gesture to where his ninth baby is taking shape.

                "Jan Mayan," he replies.

                I frown. "Did you just make that up on the spot?"

                He betrays his cheeky spontaneity in an over-the-shoulder smirk that makes me want to tackle him in a sexy way, which I don't, obviously, because he's holding an infant.

                A rap sounds at the bedchamber door then, followed by Iceland's toneless voice: "Are you two having sex?"

                "Not at the moment," I call as Iceland pushes the door open, "but I can remedy that if you want to take the little one." I grin, bobbing my head at Svalbard and then wiggling my eyebrows at Norge.

                (Huh. Norge and Iceland have the exact same "fuck you" look. I've never noticed that before. Like father like son, I guess.)

                Iceland already looks ageless, but he's only sixteen in human-years. He's standing in the doorway, afraid to step into my bedchamber. He's got his arms crossed and his hip cocked, a bored look on his pretty face. _Pft_ , teenagers.

                Iceland, Faroe, and Greenland all still live with me. Once I lived in a house full of cute little ankle-biters; now I live in a house full of pre-pubescent rebellion. At sixteen, Iceland looks the eldest; he grew faster than the others did thanks to the innovations of the twentieth-century. Faroe is fourteen, and Greenland is ten. It's taken all three of them a really long time to develop. Sometimes I wonder if they'll ever grow into adults, or stay kids forever. That's the tricky thing about us nations; aging and developing are two different things. My stepsons are all over a thousand-years-old, but Faroe still won't eat his vegetables unless bribed; Greenland is still—secretly, but we all know—afraid of the dark; and Iceland—

                " _Pft_ , I'm surprised I've only got seven nephews, the way you two go at it."

                —can be such a snarky little shit sometimes.

                (God, I love that kid. I'll be sad when he decides to leave.)

                In reply, Norge hands sleeping Svalbard to Iceland, a suggestive glint in his violet eyes.

                " _Seriously_?" Iceland deadpans, annoyed.

                Norge grins. "Seriously." And he shuts Iceland out of the bedchamber.

                "I hope you get a venereal disease!" he calls from the other side, then stomps off.

                Norge is chuckling as I come up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. "Are you ever going to tell him the truth?" I ask. "Or are you going to let him think he's your little brother forever?"

                Neither of us knows why Iceland thinks he's Norge's younger brother instead of his son, but it's our fault he still does, because we've never corrected him.

                "Maybe, someday," Norge says softly. (It's been his reply for centuries.)

                I feel bad, because it always makes him a little bit sad, but it's short-lived guilt. Norge turns in my arms and presses his body against mine, chest-to-chest; groin-to-groin, grinding his hips against me. I can feel the heartbeat of his unborn colony—the tiny island, Jan Mayan—and the pale heat of his flawless skin. His lips are full and soft and ripe for kissing, which I do, smiling down as he tips his head up.

                "Now?" I say, teasing him.

                His violet eyes flash hungrily (horny as fuck). " _Now_."

* * *

**FINLAND**

**HELSINKI**

_BANG_!

                I lower my rifle and grin. _Bulls-eye._ The target is still swinging fifty paces away, a hole shining sunlight right through the centre.

                I reload and fire again, again, again. Each time I aim at a farther target. My hands are steady and my eyes are open as I lift the barrel and adjust my aim—a half-inch to the right. I exhale slowly, my breath visible in the cold. My finger gently squeezes the trigger. Hold. _Fire_!

                "Nice shot," says Sweden.

                He's been waiting for me to finish, standing there silent as a ghost—at a safe distance. A respectful distance so as not to disturb my concentration, but I knew he was there, waiting patiently. I'd sensed his entry into my country, his swift approach, but his presence is so familiar to me and my land that I didn't feel the need to interrupt my target practice to greet him. In fact, I like when Sweden watches me shoot. I like knowing that his lovely sea-blue eyes are on me, captivated by me. I always shoot best when he's watching, like I'm subconsciously trying to impress him. Maybe, I am.

                I lower the rifle, switch on the safety, turn to Sweden, and smile.

                "Thanks," I say, accepting the compliment and the positive feelings that flood me.

                (I know that I'm a good shot—the best sniper I know, in fact. But my pride pales in comparison to Sweden's approval. One complimentary word from him and I feel myself glowing, even after all this time.)

                Sweden doesn't question _why_ I'm practicing my marksmanship as if my life depended on it. He doesn't ask because he knows that—with the tension brewing in Europe, again—my life _might_ depend on it. And soon. He doesn't make the same mistake he did a few years ago when he found me practicing:

                "Don't be afraid, Fin," he said. "Whatever happens, I'll protect you. I'll be better this time, stronger. I'll—"

                That's where I interrupted him. I placed a finger on his lips and felt them close. "No," I said seriously. "You don't protect me, Su. Not anymore. _I_ protect me, now. If this past century has taught me anything, it's that I can take care of myself. I _need_ to take care of myself. I've lived under someone else's protection for far too long. But," I added, noticing his crestfallen expression, "that doesn't mean I don't want you with me. I just want you to stand beside me, not in front of me."

                "I would marry you," he said earnestly. "If you asked me right now, Fin, I'd marry you for real."

                But I didn't ask, and neither did he.

                I simply smiled and kissed him, and said: "I know."

                It's what I didn't know I wanted once, but not anymore. Now, it's enough to know that he _wants_ me, truly. That he loves me.

                I take the hand Sweden presents me and we walk back through the forest together. His hands are strong and scarred. His fingers are long and thick, but they're no longer the hands of a warrior. Now they're the huge hands of a craftsman. They're still strong—stronger now than ever, perhaps—but they're gentle, too. As we walk, I squeeze his big hand and he grips mine tighter in reply. He knows it won't hurt me. He knows he can't break me—not anymore. He worries, I know that. He's a worrier by nature, to be honest. But the confidence of my hold tells him he no longer has to be worried about me.

                I know that Sweden is worried about the state of Europe. He doesn't say so, but I can see stress-lines on his handsome face. Lines that weren't there before the turmoil of The Great War. He's afraid that _the war to end all wars_ was only a prelude for what's coming, and I agree. All of Europe's greatest powers—or, all of Europe's _once_ greatest powers—are weary and exhausted. They're all holding their breath, I can feel it. Everyone is cautious and suspicious of each other. England is anxious, taut as a drawn bowstring. France is terrified. He tries to hide it, but his hands always shake. They're afraid they made a mistake at the Paris Peace Conference. They _know_ they did, but there's nothing they can do about it now. (And even if there was, I doubt they would. England and France have never been historically self-repentant.) I overheard them talking recently. It was by accident. They didn't see me, and I didn't announce myself when I saw France suddenly take England's hands. It's better not to interrupt England and France in private if it can be helped. France's voice was desperate when he said:

                "Marry me."

                Only England's eyes betrayed him. They grew large in disbelief—soft and sad. But the rest of him remained unmoved. France squeezed his hands, but England's reply was definitive:

                "No," he said tonelessly.

                France brought England's hands to his lips and kissed them. "Please, England," he begged. "I-I-I don't know what's going to happen to me. The Germans, they..." He was shaking badly. "I think they really might kill me. I need you, England. Let's be strong be together, okay? Let's face them together, like before. If we get married, we can—"

                "France," England interrupted. His voice was even, but there was pain in his green eyes—a kind of pain I've never seen in him before. "I won't marry you, but I promise," he continued before France could protest, "no matter what happens, I will be your ally. I will defend you. I will never..." pause; deep breath "...abandon you."

                A tear rolled down France's cheek.  He nodded, then let go of England's hands and instead pulled the green-eyed man into a fierce hug. " _Promise_?" he whispered, so soft I barely heard it.

                England hesitated, then wrapped his arms firmly around France. "I promise."

                None of us really like England and France after everything they've done, but it's hard not to feel sympathetic when I see them together like that. Scared.

                But they're not the only ones.

                It's hard not to pity Spain, too. Spain—once England's meanest rival; the great and terrifying Conquistador—is recovering from a nasty Civil War that's crippled him.

                And the Italians, who are being bullied by their own politicians. They may have inherited Rome's legacy, but outside of religion the poor things are hopeless at international politics. The Allies still whisper: " _Cowards. Defectors. Traitors_ ," when they see Italy and Romano.

                And the Low Countries siblings, who have been signing contracts to try and protect their defenceless lands, still trying to heal from the last total conflict that destroyed their people and homes.

                And Poland, who's become little more than a wraith, a ghost of his former self as he wanders aimless through the country that no longer belongs to him; the country that Prussia and Russia have torn apart. (France's trembling is nothing compared to the fits of anguish that seize Poland.)

                And Austria and Hungary, whose marriage is slowly breaking. We all hear them screaming at each other, but pretend we don't.

                And so, so many of the central nations, who are too young to influence their prejudice elders. Nationalism. How can a word that symbolizes something so unifying be used to justify acts of such intolerable hate?

                And then there's Russia, my former overlord. Despite everything he's done for me, I still can't think of him without feeling a trifle uncomfortable. I pity what happened to him. There hasn't been such a bloody revolt since the French Revolution. But now that I'm free, I'm finally free to hate him. Hindsight should make me forgive him, but the reality of it is I can finally hate him for everything he did to me; for everything he made me do; for everything he took from me that I can never get back. ( _I hate him_! _I hate him_! _I hate him_!) I'm free of him, but I still can't forgive him. I still wake in the night gasping and crying and screaming, and it's all because of him. He's still my neighbour and trade ally, so I'll work with him. I'll be civil and polite. My society and economy will move on like nothing has happened, but it'll be a long time before my heart can forgive him. _If_ it ever does. Oh, Russia. Despite The Great War, he's carried on like he always has. His bones—his people—are still so strong, still so unbreakable. His nation's new leader is cruel, an unyielding isolationist that has closed Russia off from everyone, and my once proud overlord has been withdrawn into himself, like he's hunkering down and preparing for the worst, like everyone else.

                Everyone except for the Germans. I don't know how—none of us do—but Germany and Prussia have pulled themselves out of poverty faster than anyone could have predicted. In a few short decades, they've regained their former strength. No, they've doubled it; tripled it. They've become world leaders of industry. They've stabilized their economy. They've cut their unemployment rate. They've rejoined the world of international affairs. They've become indispensible to their allies. And they've instilled a fierce pride in their population that, honestly, frightens me a little. I don't know how, but they've managed to repair what The Great War broke. They've used that horrible experience to make themselves stronger, better. And they _are_ better. Instead of clinging to the past, Germany has embraced all that the twentieth-century has to offer. He's become a man of modern ideals and innovation. (Prussia... Prussia worries me.) The Germans have managed to put everything behind them—except the anger. They're both angry as hell. And they blame it on the Allies. It's no wonder England is anxious. It's no wonder France is scared, because sooner or later the Germans are going to strike. I don't know how, and I don't know when. It might be a year from now; it might be one-hundred years from now, but sooner or later they'll have their revenge.

                And they're not the only ones who want it.

                Sooner or later, someone is going to break. I don't know who or when or how, but if we—Europe, the whole world—don't do something to avert crisis, then it's going to be even worse than before.

                "Why do you think that?" Sweden asks when I tell him.

                I shrug. "I don't know, it's just a feeling." A strong feeling, but I don't detail it to Sweden. "The Paris Peace Conference caused more problems than it solved. I think we can all agree on that," I state boldly. "And the League of Nations has failed. That's what happens when you let a couple dictate the terms of armistice for everyone." He knows that I'm talking about England and France (and I'm using _couple_ in every sense of the word). "They— _we_ —all need to accept that the world is changing. Power doesn't mean Empire anymore. Now it means internal strength and stability. Spain, Russia, Turkey... How many more need to suffer before we accept each other as equals and not states and colonies; not conquests; not rivals? How long are we going to continue to fight each other because of petty differences, Su?"

                Sweden's reply is a gentle, hopeless smile. "I don't know, Fin.

                "Do you really believe that unity is possible?" he asks after a long stretch of pensive silence.

                I'm quiet for a moment before I admit: "I _want_ to believe it is. Just because something has never happened before doesn't mean it isn't possible."

                Sweden looks down at me and smiles bigger, as if I've said something especially endearing. "I love you, Fin," he says out-of-the-blue.

                Since our discussion concerns warfare, I'm taken aback by his sudden confession, so it takes me a moment to respond:

                "I love you, too, Su.

                "Come on," I say, brightening. I squeeze his hand and start to walk faster west. "Norway had another baby," I report, smiling. "Let's go and see him. There's nothing more hopeful in times of crisis then the promise of new life."

                Sweden's long legs match my pace. "Will Denmark be there?" he asks, the barest hint of a pout on his face. It's such a little thing, but it makes me feel lighter.

                I cock my head and pierce him with a rhetorical look. "What do you think? Norway just had a baby," I repeat, grinning. " _Of course_ Denmark will be there."

* * *

**NORWAY**

**OSLO**

_Fly_ , _little bird_!" Dan calls as he throws Svalbard up a couple feet, then catches him again. Svalbard shrieks and laughs, his pale eyes aglow with excitement. Dan tosses him up again, then swings him in a wide arc as he spins around in the drawing-room. He steps over Faroe, who's sprawled on his stomach on the floor, reading; and passes by Greenland, who watches his stepfather and little brother with jealous eyes, knowing that he's too big now—too old—to be tossed around like a toddler. Sweden notices this and distracts Greenland with licorice, and suddenly Greenland feels special again. (" _Thank-you_ , _Uncle Sweden_!") I frown disapprovingly at Sweden. _Bribery_? I silently ask. He shrugs and gently pats Greenland's jet-black hair. Frankly, I'm surprised Åland isn't spoiled rotten. Sweden is a surprisingly indulgent parent, comparable to—but less materialistic than—France. I roll my eyes at him, then continue onward to the couch and hand Iceland one of the two coffees I'm carrying. He takes it, sips it, and sighs in contentment like a true Nordic. I place Finland's coffee on a table beside him, because he has no hands to spare. He's rocking little Jan Mayan, who's fast-asleep. I lift Åland onto my lap and sit down next to Finland. Åland's face is contorted in concentration as he tries without luck to open the puzzle-box Sweden made for him. ( _Uncle_ Norway he calls me now, not _Papa_.)

                _This is really nice_ , I think, surveying the comfortable living-space. My house isn't as big as Dan's, or as lavish as Sweden's, but it's cozy. _We haven't all been together like this in so long._

                I look back at Finland and wonder if he'll ever have more children. He's a picture of paternal affection as he smiles down at Jan Mayan, and I think it's a shame that he—and Sweden—don't have more colonies since they're both such devoted parents. But I suppose the Age of Colonization is long past, now. Colonies who were once the children of Empires now have States and Provinces and Territories of their own. Five-hundred-years ago Empires were birthing, adopting, and conquering colonies all over the world, but twentieth-century births are uncommon.

                Germany lost all control of his facial muscles and gaped at me when he learnt of Svalbard and Jan Mayan's births. "Norway, you're pregnant _again—_?" he sputtered in disbelief. I was a little put-off by his judgement, but Dan thought it was hilarious. Though, I suppose I _am_ a little old to be establishing new colonies.

                I haven't seen much of Germany lately, but the last time I did he didn't look good. He looked tired—stressed.

                There's a blunt knock at the door and—after exchanging a look with Dan; I'm not expecting company—I rise swiftly to answer it.

                _Speak of the devil_ , I think, coming face-to-face with Prussia and Germany. (Or rather, face-to-throat with the pair, since I'm a head shorter than they.)

                Åland ducks in fear of the Germans and buries his face in the crook of my neck. Prussia's blood-red eyes flick analytically from my face to the child on my hip and back, and I instinctively lay a hand over Åland's head to shield him, because Prussia's gaze is hungry. He's looking at Åland, but he's not seeing the archipelago as a child; he's seeing a military instillation.

                "Is Denmark here?" he asks without a greeting. "There's something we need to discuss with him."

                "So urgently?" I ask, reminding them that this is my house, not my parliament. "It's Sunday," I add crisply. I indicate Åland to imply the other colonies. "My family is here—"

                "I'm not asking, Norway," Prussia interrupts. There's more wolf in his voice than human, and the fact that he still hasn't blinked it starting to make me nervous. Those blood-red eyes are penetrating.

                Germany is quiet, but no less stiff.

                Slowly, I nod. " _D-Dan_!" I call. I'm ashamed of the way my voice trembles, and the way my body instinctively shrinks back against Dan's chest, seeking support as he comes up behind me. I'm ashamed of, but comforted by the protective hand he places on my shoulder.

                "Prussia, Germany," he says, steering me gently back behind him. "To what do I owe this visit on a _Sunday_?" he adds, emphasizing how uncouth their unexpected—uninvited—presence is.

                "We need to talk," says Prussia, leaving no room for argument. " _Alone_ ," he stresses, glaring at me.

                Dan considers his cousins—sees the Swastikas on their coats—and he nods. To me, he says: "Go back inside, Norge. I won't be long."

                It scares me. Dan's curt dismissal scares me. I clutch Åland tighter, but I don't move.

                "Norge," he repeats.

                I look from the Germans to the Dane and I shake my head. A part of me wants to cower behind Dan; another part wants to leap in front of him to protect him from whatever the Germans want. I don't know what they want, but it can't be good. Prussia and Germany are very formal, they're rule-followers. They're statesmen, politicians. They don't make house-calls on Sundays. Or, they never used to. But now—? I don't like the looks on their faces. Germany looks more tired than last I saw him. There are deep, dark bruises circling his sky-blue eyes (a stormy sky), and a mechanic stiffness to his movements that reminds me of a puppeteer's doll. In contrast, Prussia looks extraordinarily alive, but not in a good way. His red eyes bleed hunger, as if he's been starved. I look at them and a horrible fear grips me, and I think suddenly that if they take Dan with them now I'll never see him again.

                Prussia utters an impatient noise that sounds like a growl.

                "Norge," Dan orders, "go back inside.

                "Please."

                It's the _please_ that finally gets me. It's the plea in his blue eyes that's afraid for me, that wants to protect me. It's the earnest look that says: _Trust me_ , _Norge_.

                Wordlessly, I retreat.

                Dan follows Prussia and Germany to a secluded part of my property beside the woodpile, and I return to the drawing-room to find seven worrying faces staring back at me. The colonies have all crowded around Finland on the couch, Iceland included, and Sweden is pacing the floor in front of them like a guard-dog. He takes Åland from me, and it's only then I realize I'm shaking like a reindeer calf.

                "What's going on?" he asks.

                "I don't know."

                My voice is steady, but I must look shocked because Iceland comes to my side, his coffee abandoned. He lays a tentative hand on my back. It's cold, but the gentle pressure whispers concern.

                "Prussia and Germany are here. I don't know why. They're talking with Dan. I don't know what about. They don't look good." I'm talking in fractured sentences, but I can't help it. Something in Prussia's gaze has frightened me more than anything has in centuries. And the lack of something in Germany's makes me think that whatever horror is coming has already begun. "I don't think they're okay,"' I report. "I think something is wrong with them, very wrong. I think they're sick. I think Prussia and Germany are very, _very_ sick. S-Something bad is going to happen," I say, losing my voice to shaking.

                Iceland rubs my back.

                Greenland asks: "Papa?" I'm scaring him. I'm scaring them all, but maybe we _should_ be scared.

                I want to hold them and soothe them and promise to protect them all from whatever is coming, but I don't. I can't. So when my lips part, it's a single frightened whisper that seeps out:

                " _Dan_."

                "Stay here," says Sweden's deep voice. He sits Åland down beside Svalbard, then leaves without a backwards glance.

                Iceland leads me to the couch and I sit between he and Finland. It's quiet in the drawing-room, so quiet I can hear the beat of my own pounding heart. How much longer will it beat for, I wonder? I've never taken for granted my immortality until now, but there's something in Prussia and Germany that screams annihilation. Their burning hate and determination— _desperation_ —is so thick, it's nearly tangible. I can feel it. The colonies can feel it, too, but they don't make a sound, as if muteness can save them, even though they're too young to understand why they're scared. Too young and afraid to ask why _I'm_ scared.

                Finally, Finland's soft voice breaks the silence. He says: "Norway, what did you see?"

                " _Fear_ ," I whisper the truth. "I saw so much fear."

* * *

  **SWEDEN**

I stay hidden. I don't want to give Prussia or Germany any reason to label me as an enemy, but I'm afraid that's what I already am. I don't like those armbands they wear. They're black and white and red and look like murder. I don't like the way they barge into other people's lives and demand attention—submission. I don't like the entitled looks on their faces, or the privileged gait of their march, or the superior tilt of their heads. I don't like how they corner Denmark to speak to him, blocking his chances of escape. Prussia's posture is deceptively friendly as he speaks. It's confident and trusting. But Germany and Denmark are rigid: Germany because he looks made of metal; Denmark because he's on-guard. The Dane is straight-backed and tense and his jaw is locked. He's doing the listening, not the talking. I can see his fingers twitch at his sides, fighting the urge to curl into defensive fists. And I can see his boot slowly shifting in the snow. I see these little details because I've learnt to recognize them over the years, the signs that Denmark is about to attack. Only—he doesn't. He wants to attack—I know, because I've fought that look before—but he doesn't move. He stands there and lets Prussia talk at him, and at the close of the lecture the only thing he says is:

                "Okay, I'll think about it."

                Prussia is unsatisfied. "Do more than think about it," he warns.

                I wait for the Germans to leave before revealing myself to Denmark. He's just standing there in the snow like a statue, but I approach him cautiously. I don't know what the Germans want from him, or what he's promised them. I can't know what he's thinking—feeling—because, for once, I can't read his face. It's steely, like Germany's. In this moment, I can't know that he's not my enemy, too. Maybe that's why I say:

                "Brother?"

                Denmark stalks toward me, rapidly closing the distance between us. He doesn't relax his guard. He grabs my shoulder and clenches it hard. I can feel the strength of his hand digging into my muscles. Still so strong, even after all these years. His voice is low and urgent when he says:

                "Sweden."

                He finally lifts his gaze to meet mine and all I see is pain.

                "I need you to do something for me."


End file.
